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WHISTLING JIMPS 






Jimps fell down the cliff 







WHISTLING JIMPS 






EDNA^TURPIN 

Author of “Treasure Mountain,” “Honey Sweet,** 


Abram’s Freedom,’’ etc. 


ILLUSTRATED BY 
D. G. SUMMERS 




NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 
1922 


\ 


Copyright, 1922 , by 
The Century Co. 


Copyright, 1921 , by 
Perry Mason Company 




SEP -7 1922 

©0I.A683117 


t 


ALIDA WILSON 
NANCY TUCKER WILSON 
ELSIE BOYD TUCKER 
BETSY COKE 












I 















































I 
























































LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Jimps fell down the cliff .... Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 

“What did yon do to Zillo?” she demanded . . 6 


Page sat there, watching him 80 

“They’ve got us !” groaned Jimps .... 192 




WHISTLING JIMPS 



WHISTLING JIMPS 


CHAPTER I 

Y OU boy ! Look out ! ’ ’ Mrs. Harvie called 
wamingly. 

Page Ruffin, curled up with a book in the 
hammock, glanced around and saw a ragged 
youngster at the upper end of the camp-ground. 
Without the slightest attention to Mrs. Harvie, 
he kept on his way. 

“Look out! Stop there !” she called again. 
“He ’s awfully cross, really. vicious; he ’ll not 
make friends with any one.” 

The boy did not answer, even by a look. 
Nor did he pause. He went close to the par- 
rot’s cage, although the bird, regarding all 
humankind as its foes, was seconding its mis- 
tress’s warning; it ruffled its feathers, flapped 
its wings, squawked harshly, and made futile, 
furious pecks at the firm bars of its prison. 
“Well, if you will — ” Mrs. Harvie gave 

3 


4 WHISTLING JIMPS 

the hard-headed fellow up to his punishment. 

For a minute or two the boy stood perfectly 
still, staring at the strange, gorgeous bird. 
Then he gave a sweet, coaxing call. The par- 
rot perked its head sideways and listened. It 
uttered a short cry that was less fierce, but 
still belligerent; it could not forget the bars 
between it and the gay summer world. 

The boy repeated the call. It began with a 
low, clear whistle 1 , and rippled and gjurgled 
into a liquid note that melted into the stillness 
as if it were a part of it. It was a quite in- 
describable sound, as if a bird's song had 
blended with, had changed into, the plashing 
of a stream, the rustle of summer sunlit 
woods — all the freshness and fragrance and 
color of outdoors. 

Page caught herself with perked-up lips 
trying to echo the whistle. And the bird fixed 
its bright beadlike eyes on the boy’s face, 
slowly dropped its wings and smoothed its 
angry plumage, then gave a sharp but friendly 
whistle in reply. The boy laughed and thrust 
a sunburnt hand between the bars of the cage. 
And the parrot, Grossest and most vicious of 


WHISTLING JIMPS 5 

all its race, laid its head against the hand and 
gave a soft, friendly little note. 

“0 Mrs. Harvie! Isn't that wonderful?” 
cried Page, dropping her book and jumping 
out of the hammock. ‘ 4 That 's the first person 
Zillo has not fought — claw, beak, and voice. 
— What did you do to him?” 

The boy did not answer. Page looked at his 
intent face, and laughed. 

“You look like I feel when I 'm reading a 
book I love,” she said. She put her hand on 
his shoulder. “What on earth did you do to 
Zillo?” she demanded. “I want to know, for 
he 's nipped my fingers a dozen times, and me 
trying to feed him and be friends! What did 
you do?” 

“Nothin'.” The boy's voice was slow and 
sweet. He had a trick of screwing up his 
flexible lips before and after he spoke that 
made it seem as if his native speech were a 
whistle from which he turned with effort to the 
language of humans. “I nuver see a bird like 
him. Thar ain't none sich in the woods here- 
abouts.” 

“It 's a parrot. It came from South Amer- 


6 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


ica. Mrs. Harvie’s brother sent it to her,” 
Page informed him, smiling as she looked at 
him. 

There was a quaint charm about the boy. 
He was a barefooted, ragged, dirty little fellow 
of about thirteen, with a wild, friendly, sun- 
browned face. The tip of his nose had a comi- 
cal uptilt, and his eyebrows ran up in peaks 
over his eyes, which were deep-set and had long, 
dark lashes. When he looked up at the parrot, 
Page saw that his eyes were a clear light gray 
and as bright and quick as the bird’s. 

‘ ‘ Come on, Jimps!” a voice called sharply. 
“ Don’t stand thar bewitchted with that bird. 
Mammy say for us to go to the hotel an’ sell 
them minnows an’ come home.” 

Page, looking in the direction of the voice, 
saw a group of young mountaineers. They 
had just come up the path from the chestnut 
woods into the main road. They were all 
barefooted, ragged, and dirty, and all of them 
had bright, wild, dark faces. In front was a 
girl of about fifteen, carrying her baby brother 
on her hip. At her heels trudged a ten-year- 
old girl, bearing with grave caution a bucket 



What did you do to Zillo?” she demanded 











































































































































































































































1 

















WHISTLING JIMPS 


7 


of minnows. There were two younger chil- 
dren, a girl and a boy, with bunches of wild 
flowers clutched in their fists. 

“-Come on, Jimps!” the eldest girl repeated 
impatiently. “Don’t keep us waitin’.” 

“You go on, Minta. Leave me be.” The 
boy flung his answer to his sister without mov- 
ing or looking toward her. 

“I ain’t. I ain’t goin’ to stir a step with- 
out you go,” she declared. “You jest lief 
stay thar till dark, gazin’ at that bird. You 
come on, Jimps.” 

While Minta was arguing with her loitering 
brother, the smaller children scattered about 
the camp-ground like so many roaming pup- 
pies. 

“0 Mrs. Harvie!” cried Page. “That little 
girl is eating an apple-paring. Mayn’t I give 
them some apples ?” 

“Give them bread and meat, too,” answered 
Mrs. Harvie. “And there are some honey- 
cakes in the tin box.” 

•Page dispensed a bountiful supply of food 
to the young mountaineers, who sat down on 
the ground and ate greedily — all except the boy 


8 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


called Jimps. He stood beside the parrot’s 
cage, munching the sandwich that Page thrust 
into his hand, and giving the bird bits of bread 
and apple, which it accepted with friendly little 
chirps. 

Page went back to her book and to the 
hammock under a great chestnut-tree beside 
the camp-ground — “Starwink Camp” it was 
called by the young folk who had camped there 
every summer for several years. 

No lovelier site could be found than the 
grassy, tree-encircled glade at the lower end of 
Hilltop Lake, which is set like a jewel in the 
crest of the Virginia Alleghanies. And Star- 
wink Camp never looked more beautiful 
than it did on that late August afternoon, 
with the sunlight gilding the glade and lying in 
streaks and patches in the surrounding wood- 
land. 

All the young people except Page Ruffin — 
Mary Watkins, Elinor Lane, Anne Lewis, 
Harrison Ruffin, and three Harvie boys, Chris- 
topher and David and Alexander — had gone 
rowing on the lake. Page had stayed at camp 
with a book she was eager to finish. She 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


9 


snuggled down now m the hammock where 
sunbeams, flickering through the chestnut foli- 
age, found her out and danced over the brown 
face, kissed the rose-red lips, brightened the 
fair hair into spun gold, and twinkled in the 
gray-blue eyes under the dark lashes. She 
read on, and the chirping and whistling of the 
boy and the parrot made themselves a part of 
the harmony of the summer day. 

But there came an alien note. A woman’s 
high-pitched voice called: 1 1 Good afternoon, 
Mrs. Harvie! Oh! What have you in that 
great basket V 9 

The speaker was Mrs. Candler, a vivid, viva- 
cious little woman who was staying at the hotel 
at the upper end of the lake. She came stroll- 
ing down the road, with her small son Reginald 
hanging to her hand. His pert young voice fol- 
lowed his mother’s shrill tones. 

“Say! what you got in that basket V 9 he 
demanded. 

“Mushrooms,” replied Mrs. Harvie; “chan- 
tarelles and russulas and some violet cortina- 
rius ; beauties they are, and they ’ll make a 
delicious dish.” 


10 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Mushrooms! Where did you get them?” 
asked Mrs. Candler. 

“Back there.” Mrs. Harvie nodded toward 
the woods. “There are quantities around 
here. We gather some nearly every day.” 

“And you eat them?” asked Mrs. Candler, 
with a little shudder. “Why, I wouldn’t dare 
eat mushrooms except out of a market-basket 
or a can.” 

“Some one has to gather them to put into 
baskets and cans, you know,” said Mrs. Harvie, 
laughing. “I ’d as soon trust my hands and 
eyes and wits as the market-gardener’s. We 
.gather only a few varieties, ones we are per- 
fectly sure are good. Look at the lovely cob- 
web veil of this cortinarius. ” 

At first Mrs. Candler touched the mush- 
rooms with gingerly fingertips; but presently 
she became interested and began to help sort 
them. And then, with an impatient exclama- 
tion, she stripped off the rings that weighted 
her slender fingers and tossed them upon a 
near-by stone. 

Reginald stood for a while picking at the 
mushrooms; then he tugged impatiently at his 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


11 


mother’s hand. “Aw, come on, Mama!” he* 
said. “Let ’s find some hop-toads to throw 
stones at. I bet I oan squush every one we 
find.” 

“In a minute, darling,” said his mother. 
“Clever, high-spirited children are so restless, 
aren’t they, Mrs. Harvie? Look, sweet pet! 
See that pretty poll parrot.” 

Reginald, disregarding Mrs. Harvie’s warn- 
ing “Take care! He ’ll peck you!” ran to the 
cage, and promptly had his fingers nipped. 

“I ’ll pay you for that, you horrid bad 
bird ! ” he bawled. 

He jerked up a stick and began to hit at the 
parrot, which in turn screamed and struck at 
him. 

Jimps caught the angry youngster firmly by 
the arm. 

“Stop that,” he said, without raising or 
hurrying his voice. 

“Let me alone. You got nothing to do with 
me, you dirty poor boy!” Reginald cried 
angrily, kicking fiercely at the boy’s bare shins. 

“I ain’t goin’ to let you pester that bird,” 
Jimps said quietly. “Get away.” 


12 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Reginald backed off to a safe distance. “I 
will if I want to !” he shouted. ‘ ‘ You ain’t my 
boss. Who ’s afraid of you? I ain’t.” 

But, for all his bold words, he did not ven- 
ture again within reach of the mountaineer’s 
sturdy young arm. For a while he vented his 
spite by throwing pebbles at Jimps; then he 
wandered to the shed that served as a kitchen 
and banged furiously with a frying-pan on 
pots and kettles. When he saw the Starwink 
campers coming up the path from the lake, he 
dropped the pan and ran and caught Sandy 
Harvie by the hand. 

4 ‘What made you not be here when I came?” 
he demanded. “Why weren’t you here to 
play with me ? ” 

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Sandy 
said politely. He was the youngest of the 
Harvies, the twelve-year-old petted “baby” of 
the camp. “0 Mother! we ’ve had the bestest 
time ! ” he exclaimed. 

“I got a lovely picture of the Portal; the 
light ’s just right,” said Elinor Lane, whose 
bright, ugly face looked like a comic picture. 

“We had a jolly boat-race,” said Mary 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


13 


Watkins, a vivid brunette, coming up arm in 
arm with fair-haired Anne Lewis. “Anne and 
I raced against Chris and Harrison; and we 
almost beat them — didn’t we, Anne?” 

Christopher Harvie set his head nodding 
like a Chinese idol’s, and chanted teasingly, 
“A miss is as good as a — ” 

“As a boy, to be sure!” interrupted a merry 
voice. 

“Come now, Page ! You might at least have 
said a mister!” retorted Harrison Ruffin, a 
brown-faced, tawny-haired youngster, very 
like his cousin Page. 

“Here, Pagie! leave your old book and let 
me tell you about my picture,” said Elinor, 
starting toward the hammock. Suddenly she 
stopped. “Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, 
pointing to Mrs. Candler’s rings lying on the 
stone. “Look, girls! Did you ever see any- 
thing so exquiss? Those gorgeous colors ! fairly 
blazing in the sunlight !” 

“Precious!” “Lovely!” “Scrumptious!” ex- 
claimed the other girls. 

“Huh!” said a slow voice. “They ain’t 
nothin’ to make sich a fuss over.” 


14 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


The young campers stared at the boy — bare- 
footed, in dingy overalls and torn shirt — who 
had turned from the parrot and was gazing 
over Pagers shoulder at the rings. 

‘ ‘My word! You look like a judge of 
gems!” Christopher said, laughing. 

Jimps stood calm and unabashed. “I got 
sparklers prettier ’n them little few things; 
lots of ’em, an’ all colors, like a rainbow.’ ’ 

There was a shout of laughter in which 
matter-of-fact, truth-loving Elinor did not join. 

“Why, boy!” she exclaimed. “Those are 
diamonds and rubies and emeralds — perfect 
beauties and worth ever so much money. One 
little diamond costs — oh! a hundred dollars; 
and big ones cost ever so much more. I don’t 
reckon you ever saw such jewels before, and as 
for having any — What makes him talk such 
nonsense!” she asked Minta, who had come 
nearer, again impatiently summoning her 
brother. 

“Ef he say it ’s so, I ain’t got no call to say 
it ain’t so,” Minta answered stolidly. “You 
come on, Jimps.” 

“Oh, he ’s found some crystals like those we 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


15 


got in the cave, or some bits of broken glass,” 
said Harrison Ruffin. 

“They ain’t glass, my sparklers ain’t,” 
declared Jimps. 

“Show them to us,” said Elinor; “show us 
your ‘ sparklers,’ as you call them, and let us 
see — ” 

“I won’t. You got nothin’ to do with ’em.” 

“Then I don’t believe you have — anything. 
I don’t believe a word you say,” Elinor said 
severely. 

“Suit yoreself. B’lieve it or don’t b’lieve 
it,” Jimps answered indifferently, turning 
back to the parrot. 

“Oh! everybody stop spatting,” cried Page. 
‘ ‘ Let me tell you the most wonderful thing ! 
You all know how cross Zillo is? Well, this 
boy — ” And she proceeded to tell about his 
making friends with the parrot. “Who is he, 
anyway?” she asked, lowering her voice. “Do 
you know, Harrison? That girl — his sister, 
I suppose — calls him Jimps, and her name is 
Minta.” 

“They are the Farlans,” answered Harri- 
son, who had spent his early boyhood in these 


16 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


mountains. ‘ ‘ That Jim Farlan — ‘Whistling 
Jimps,’ they call him — roams the woods like 
a wild thing. The others are Minta and Nance 
and Looey and Sam. I don’t know the baby’s 
name. They are squatters, and live here, 
there, anywhere. They ’ve just moved to a 
cabin at the foot of Deer Mountain.” 

“Can you really put your finger in that 
cage? Won’t Zillo peck you?” Alexander 
asked the young mountaineer. ‘ ‘ See where he 
bit me; and when I was putting seeds in his 
cage,” he said in an aggrieved little voice. 

“Here, you Jimps!” said Minta, catching 
her brother roughly by the shoulder. “You 
come on an’ le’s sell them minnows.” 

‘ ‘ Sell minnows ! ’ ’ laughed Chris. ‘ ‘ I did n ’t 
think he ’d deal in anything smaller than 
whales. He ’d better be seeing about his 
jewel-mine. Is it anywhere near Bear Bluff? 
We ’d like to look it up — we ’re going there 
for a picnic to-morrow, and we might bring 
back a handful of ‘sparklers.’ ” 

“I don’t think it ’s any laughing matter to 
tell such stories,” Elinor said solemnly. “He 
ought to be ashamed of himself.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


17 


Christopher laughed again. “ Pshaw, El- 
inor !” he said. “Be reasonable! Any one 
that can charm Zillo — why should n ’t he have 
a diamond-mine or a pearl-fishery on top of 
the Alleghanies ? ” 

“Oh! he ’s an absurd little liar,” said Mrs. 
Candler. “Come, Reginald; come, my sweet 
pet ! Let ’s go back to the hotel and put on a 
white sailor suit. Mama wants her precious 
boy to be the prettiest, sweetest thing in the 
dining-room this evening.” 

“I ain’t going to the hotel, and I ain’t going 
to dress up,” replied Reginald. “I ’m going 
down the road, to throw stones at hop-toads!” 

“Not now, sweet pet; it ’s nearly supper- 
time,” coaxed his mother. “Let me get my 
rings and we — Why, I laid them — didn’t I 
lay my rings — ” 

“On the stone by the camp-chair you were 
in,” called Mrs. Harvie, who was putting the 
mushrooms in a pan on the alcohol-stove. 

“But they are n’t here.” 

“Of course they are. On that flat stone,” 
Mrs. Harvie insisted. “I saw you put them 
there.” 


18 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Yes; but — they aren’t!” 

“We were looking at them there a minute 
ago,” said Elinor. 

< ‘ They may have rolled down into the 
grass,’ ’ said Mrs. Harvie. “Chris! Harri- 
son! David! find Mrs. Candler’s rings.” 

They looked carefully — combing the grass; 
searching on the rock over and over again, as 
if the rings had gone away with a vagrant 
sunbeam and might now come back ; feeling the 
ground, as if the jewels might be there, invisi- 
ble but tangible. All in vain! 

Mrs. Candler was increasing her loss by 
recounting the value and association of each 
gem: “The solitaire was my engagement-ring. 
Aunt Mary paid three hundred dollars for the 
ruby. And I gave nine hundred, Cousin 
Tom’s legacy, for the diamond cluster; my 
husband always said diamonds were such a 
good investment. The emerald was my 
mother’s. And they ’re lost — every one — all 
lost and go-one!” She sobbed. 

“Maybe you moved them,” said Harrison. 

‘ 1 1 have n ’t touched them since I put them 
here,” answered Mrs. Candler, placing her 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


19 


hand on the rock for the fortieth time. “Oh! 
I know what ’s become of them!” she ex- 
claimed, turning suddenly and fiercely toward 
Jimps. “That boy stole them. Of course he 
did. He ’s been hanging round here ever since 
1 came. — You little thief! Give me my 
rings ! ’ ’ 

Jimps looked at her and made a grimace; 
then he chirruped to the parrot, gave it a final 
pat, and joined the other young Farlans at the 
roadside. 

Mrs. Candler ran after him. “If you don't 
give back my rings — at once, I say! — I’ll have 
you arrested and put in jail,” she threatened. 

“Now, Jimps! See what a mess you ’re in, 
meddlin’ with things you ’ve got no business 
with,” said Minta, who had been watching 
from a distance the search for the jewels. 

Page looked thoughtfully at the boy. Was 
Mrs. Candler right in her surmise? The rings 
had certainly been on that stone. And now 
they were gone. Where else could suspicion 
fall ? And yet, she could not feel that this gay, 
quaint urchin was a thief, even though his own 
sister seemed to accuse him. She went up to 
him and spoke in an undertone. 


20 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“That lady put four rings on the stone,’ ’ she 
said. “I saw her. If — if you picked them up, 
now give them back.” 

Jimps’s clear eyes met hers for a second. 

“I ain’t teched her rings,” he said. 

“You did,” cried Mrs. Candler. “You took 
them, and you ’ve got to give them back!” 

Jimps laughed. He sprang like a chipmunk 
upon a big rock at the edge of the camp-ground, 
and began to eat an apple Page had given him. 
He finished it calmly while the excited little 
woman stood hurling threats at him. Then he 
caught a hemlock branch, swung back and 
forth, and, suddenly letting loose the branch, 
made a flying leap that landed him far up the 
road. 

“Come back, you thief, and give me my 
rings. Stop him, boys; stop him!” called Mrs. 
Candler, scuttling after Jimps as fast as high 
heels and narrow skirt would permit. 

The boy stood poised ready for flight, and 
grinned at her with impish glee. 

“Uh, Jimps! quit yore prankin’,” com- 
manded Minta. “Ef hotel folks git down on 
us, old man Pursilot won’t leave us come thar 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


21 


to sell minnows. Mammy 11 beat you; she 11 
beat you to a frazzle. Come back an’ behave 
yoreself.” 

Jimps scowled and stamped his feet and 
shook his head and gibbered angrily, but he 
returned to the edge of the camp-ground. 

“ I ain’t teched her old rings; I ain’t been 
to that rock,” he muttered. 

‘ ‘Of course you took them. They couldn’t 
walk away. And no one else has been near 
here. You crept behind us and slipped over 
there and took them.” Mrs. Candler had now 
firmly convinced herself of the truth of her 
surmise; she was so sure the boy had stolen 
her rings that she was almost ready to think 
she had actually seen him take them. 

‘ 4 Jimps, why n’t you give the old woman her 
rings?” asked Minta. It w'as no harm, she 
thought, to pick up things you saw lying 
around; the harm was in not returning them 
when some one who had the power to do it 
threatened to make trouble for you. “ Why n’t 
you give ’em back?” she repeated. 

“I can’t give what I ain’t got,” Jimps an- 
swered sullenly. 


22 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


The campers stood on the edge of this con- 
troversy, gazing uncomfortably at one another 
and recalling what Jimps had said about 
“sparklers.” Did he indeed have jewels, the 
real things, that he had stolen? 

“He must have taken them,” Mary said in 
an undertone. “There 's no one else.” 

“I don't believe he did,” Page said slowly 
and thoughtfully. Suddenly her face bright- 
ened. “0 Mrs. Candler!” She ran up the 
road and put her hand on the little woman's 
arm. “Jimps Farlan didn't take your rings. 
I 've been thinking it over, and I remember 
just where he went and what he did. You see, 
he was standing by that chestnut-tree. He 
came and looked over my shoulder, and then 
he went, back that way, to Zillo's cage. He 
didn't — he couldn't — get the rings, for I 
was between him and them all the time.” 

“Of course he took them,” snapped Mrs. 
Candler. “I put them there; now they are 
gone. What else could have become of them?” 

“I just know he didn't go to that rock,” 
Page repeated positively. 

“I cert'n'y ain't been thar,” said Jimps. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 23 

“Ef mammy beats me to death, ef they hang 
me or jail me — I ain’t took them old rings.” 

“I know yon didn’t,” said Page, giving 
him a reassuring smile. “You didn’t do it, 
and they shan’t hurt you. I am going to stand 
by you.” 

“As Page says, she would have seen him if 
he had gone to that rock,” said Mrs. Harvie. 
“Let ’s look again. Perhaps — ” 

“She was not noticing,” Mrs. Candler inter- 
rupted. “He slipped by her. You boys must 
go with me and march the little thief straight 
to Mr. Pursilot to be searched.” 

“We must, eh!” muttered Harrison. 

“He ’s got to give back my rings. And I 
am going to ask Mr. Pursilot to forbid these 
little wretches ever, ever coming again to the 
hotel grounds.” 

“Then we can’t sell no more minnows,” 
wailed Nance. 

“We can’t git no more nickels for weeds,” 
cried Looey, looking dolefully at the wild 
flowers she had hoped to sell to a hotel guest. 

“0 Mrs. Candler! That isn’t fair,” pro- 
tested Page. “You have n’t any right to make 


24 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


these poor children suffer because you sus- 
pect Jimps — ” 

“ Suspect! I know,” Mrs. Candler said 
angrily. “He may have hidden my rings. If 
I ne-ever get them back” — her voice trembled 
at the thought — “I shall always believe and 
know he took them. Come, boys, take him to 
Mr. Pursilot. Here, Reginald. Don’t give me 
your fist like that; what have you in your 
hand?” 

4 4 Nothing.” 

* ‘ Don’t annoy me when I am worried to 
death already,” she said sharply. “Take my 
hand. You ’ll fall on these stones and get 
hurt.” 

As she jerked at his fingers, he suddenly 
opened his fist and threw down something that, 
falling in a patch of sunlight, glittered and 
twinkled like impish eyes mocking her anger 
and suspicion. 

The lost jewels! 

Mrs. Candler gasped and stared, and scram- 
bled to seize them. 

“Here they are, all of them!” she exclaimed. 
Then she wheeled toward her son. 4 ‘ Reginald ! 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


25 


Reginald Candler! And yon had my rings all 
that time, and saw me looking for them — dis- 
tressed, wretched — Oh! you naughty, naughty 
boy! Aren’t you ashamed — ” 

Reginald interrupted his mother’s reproof 
by throwing himself flat on the ground and 
howling at the top of his voice. 

‘ 4 It — it wasn’t a nice thing for you to do, 
my son , 9 9 Mrs. Candler said in an apologetic 
tone. “But don’t cry.” 

Reginald howled the more loudly, emphasiz- 
ing his screams by kicking and pounding the 
ground with his fists. 

His mother tried to lift him up, saying 
soothingly: “Why, son! sweet pet! Are you 
so grieved at having annoyed mama? Don’t 
cry, darling; don’t cry. You ’ll make yourself 
ill. Get up and let ’s go home, dear. It ’s all 
right now; it ’s all right.” 

“It surely isn’t ‘all right,’ Mrs. Candler,” 
said Page’s severe young voice. “You be- 
lieved that boy stole your rings and you ac- 
cused him of it. Don’t you think you owe him 
an apology?” 

“An apology? That little ragamuffin?” 


26 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


gasped Mrs. Candler. “Why, why — he might 
have stolen the rings. I don’t donbt he would 
have done it if he had had a chance. Probably 
Reginald saved them by picking them up. The 
dear child is so observant and clever! I ex- 
pect he saw that boy trying to sneak there and 
get them, and so he ran and picked them up.” 
She patted her son on the head. He had 
stopped screaming, and scrambled to his feet, 
allowing himself to be pacified as soon as he 
found he was in no danger of punishment. 
“Wasn’t that it, my darling!” she asked. 
“Didn’t you take mama’s rings just to keep 
them for her!” 

“Yes,” replied Reginald; “I took them to 
keep for you. Come on, Mama. Come on 
away from these horrid mean folks.” 

He tugged at her hand, and she went obedi- 
ently up the road. 

“Well! Wasn’t that a silly shame!” ex- 
claimed Chris, looking after them. 

The other campers laughed — all except Page, 
who was too indignant to see the ludicrous side 
of the affair. She ran up the road after the 
Farlan children. They were going on to the 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


27 


hotel, calmly accepting Mrs. Candler’s injus- 
tice and relieved that the threatened punish- 
ment had not fallen on Jimps and involved 
them all. 

“Good-by,” Page said, giving Jimps ’s hand 
an impulsive, friendly clasp. “I am sorry 
Mrs. Candler was so unkind, so unfair. It 
was horrid of her not to apologize.” 

“I didn’t mind nothin’ she said,” Jimps 
answered slowly. He started up the road, and 
then turned back. “Say!” He cocked his 
head sideways, with his eyes shining like a 
bird’s. “I would n’t mind lettin’ you see them 
sparklers o’ mine.” 


CHAPTER II 


T HE next morning the Starwink campers 
went picnicking. Ten o ’clock found them 
at Sweetwater Spring, which gurgled from un- 
der a great rock below the eastern crest of Lake 
Mountain. They drank and drank again of 
the delicious cool water. 

* ‘ This spring ’s sure got the right name,” 
said little Sandy. 

“Isn’t this perfect for a picnic?” exclaimed 
Anne Lewis. “Drinks close at hand, and this 
lovely rock table.” 

“Oh, it is so lovely!” Elinor Lane sighed, as 
she fingered her camera and looked from the 
tangle and tumble of ferns and rocks down to 
sunlit Hemlock Hollow, across to tree-clad 
Treasure Mountain, and on to Indian Head and 
the parallel ridges beyond, lying in pale and 
paler blue lines along the horizon. “It ’s the 
color, the atmosphere, the — oh! everything I 
can ’t get in a picture, ’ ’ she mourned. 

28 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


29 


“Look at the picture we ’ve made here, Miss 
Crape-hanger, and cheer up,” counseled Chris- 
topher. “Our first job was sure a good one. 
Gee ! don't you wish Mr. Kinman could see it!” 

Mr. Kinman was the friend who had in- 
spired the Starwink campers to form a band 
of Flower Friends, the summer before, to pro- 
tect and foster native flowers. Here were the 
first plants they had set out — green-veined 
grass-of-Parnassus, feathery white foam-flower, 
graceful jewel-weed, gorgeous Turk’s-cap lilies. 
What delicate and gay beauty they gave the 
place ! 

“This spring was always pretty,” said Anne 
Lewis. 

“We Ve made it prettier by bringing these 
flowers here,” declared Mary Watkins. 

“Yes,” Page agreed. She paused a minute, 
then went on hesitatingly: “There ’s one place 
— I don r t know that it ever could be pretty — but 
I do wish we could improve Squirrel Spring.” 

There was a chorus of astonishment and 
dissent : 

“Why, Page ! What could we do to that ugly 
old place?” 


30 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“It isn’t a spring, it ’s just an oozy hole in 
the mud.” 

“It ’s so horrid I hate even to pass it,” de- 
clared Elinor. 

Harrison did not like to see Page look dis- 
appointed, and so he gave her plan lukewarm 
approval: “If the spring were deepened and 
the channel dug out so the water would flow 
freely — ” 

“The cattle would trample it down again,” 
said Chris. 

“Oh! we could wall it round,” Page sug- 
gested, brightening. ‘ ‘ C ould n’t we, Harrison f ’ ’ 

“We ’d like to leave the mountains a sou- 
venir of our happy summer,” said Mrs. Ilar- 
vie; “a pleasant fountain instead of a muddy 
hole in that beautiful woodland.” 

“We couldn’t.” 

“We could.” 

“Let ’s go there — say, Friday,” said Page, 
“and try — ” 

“To gild a mud-hole and paint skunk-cab- 
bage, as Shakspere would say.” 

“Come, come!” laughed Mrs. Harvie. 
“When my son Christopher begins to mis- 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


31 


quote poetry it ’s time to change the subject. 
We ’ll go to Squirrel Spring on Friday and 
see what we can do to beautify — or unuglify — 
the place. Now I am going to gather some huck- 
leberries for our lunch. Who ’ll go with me?” 

“Oh! we don’t want huckleberries,” Page 
exclaimed. “Let ’s go to Bear Bluff and ex- 
plore those holes and hollows. Maybe we ’ll 
find a real cave.” 

“Wait till this afternoon,” said Mary. 
“Let ’s help Mrs. Harvie pick berries.” 

“Oh, no! Let ’s go right now,” insisted 
Page. “You ’ll go, Harrison, won ’t you? you 
and Chris?” 

“No.” Chris answered for himself and 
his chum. “While the squaws and papoose” — 
he pinched Sandy’s ear — “are picking hucks, 
we ’re going to get wood and make a fire. 
We ’ve got bacon to broil and marshmallows 
to toast.” 

“Wait, Page, and let ’s go to Bear Bluff 
after lunch,” urged Harrison. 

Page tossed her head. “I don’t want to 
wait,” she said. “I can go alone, if you ’ll not 
go with me.” 


32 ; 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


She walked away, slowly at first, hoping that 
some of her companions would change their 
minds and join her. But none of them did, 
and so she went on alone. She followed the 
foot of the rock ledge, which became higher 
and more precipitous, until presently she 
reached a break in the wall. A huge mass was 
split off in such a way as to form a gorge that 
narrowed at the farther end. Near the open 
end, three or four red birches reared their 
trunks like slim, straight columns beside the 
rock wall, and spread their foliage in the sun- 
shine above. 

Page clambered along the gorge, mounting 
easily on the steplike ledges of stone. After 
a little she came to a place that offered a choice 
of ways — one going upward to the top of the 
gorge, the other dropping downward to an un- 
sunned abyss. She peered into the dark re- 
cess. 

“It would be fun to go in there/ ’ she said to 
herself. “Mr. Sibold says you can see where 
bears have scratched the rocks with their claws. 
He says they stay here in the winter, but in the 
summer they are out in the woods/ ’ 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


33 


From the distance came the voices of her 
comrades. Elinor was shrilling a question, 
and Chris’s laughter rose above hatchet-blows 
and snapping boughs. 

Page frowned. “The boys certainly might 
have come with me. But oh, no ! They think 
I must wait till they are ready to come. I — I 
believe I ’ll go down there by myself. 1 ’ve got 
my flash-light. ’ ’ 

After a moment’s hesitation, she turned 
downward. It was easy to thread a way among 
the tumbled rocks as far as the summer 
noonlight penetrated; but presently the rock 
masses closed around her and the light grew 
dimmer. She paused and peered into the 
cavern from which black darkness seemed to 
pour out. Then she glanced wistfully behind 
her. 

4 4 But I ’ll not go back ! ’ ’ she exclaimed. 

She pulled out her flash-light and pointed it 
downward. After the glare of noonday it 
seemed a mere fire-fly in the darkness. 

“I — I wonder if it needs a new battery?” 
questioned Page. 

As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, 


34 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


the light seemed brighter and the way ahead 
appeared not difficult. There was a tunnel- 
like opening under rocks that had fallen against 
the cliff. 

“I ’ll show the boys I don’t have to wait for 
them,” Page thought. “They ’ll be surprised 
when they find out where I ’ve been all alone. ’ 9 

She groped along the winding tunnel, stop- 
ping now and then to look around and examine 
the rocks for marks of bear claws. On the 
left hand there was a rough, solid wall. On the 
right there were irregular rock masses, with 
crevices and holes — mostly midnight dark, but 
from behind one great stone came a glimmer of 
light, like faint daylight that had forgotten the 
sunshine. Beyond that stone the tunnel nar- 
rowed so that it did not afford a passageway. 
Evidently, instead of leading into a cave as 
Page had hoped, the tunnel merely followed the 
split-off rock and ended where that rejoined the 
cliff. And now the flash-light was indeed fail- 
ing, and threatened to leave her in darkness. 
She turned to hurry back. 

As she groped along the tunnel, Page heard 
a soft purr and a yawn and then the rustling 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


35 


of dry grass. It was such a good-natured, 
sleepy little sound that after the first start 
she was more curious than frightened. She 
heard the noise again, and then she realized 
that it came from under a ledge at the foot of 
the rock wall. 

She turned the flash-light, and discovered on 
a bed of matted moss and grass, what seemed 
a ball of reddish-gray fur marked with dusky 
spots and bands. As she looked, there emerged 
groping paws and legs, and heads with bright 
eyes. The furry mass disentangled itself into 
three soft bodies, little creatures that purred 
and mewed and pawed playfully at one another. 

“Why, they are kittens, the prettiest, dar- 
lingest things !” exclaimed Page. “But how 
big they are! the biggest kittens I ever saw! 
How on earth did you get ’way out here? I 
reckon people were mean to the mother cat and 
she ran off to the woods. 0 you beauties ! I ’d 
like to take you home with me. Won’t Mary 
be surprised to see what I ’ve found? Kitty!” 

She stooped to stroke the one nearest her, 
but it spit at her and scurried away, with a 
frightened miaul. 


36 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“I wouldn’t hurt you, little dear darling!” 
Page said coaxingly. 

She followed and attempted to caress it, but 
it ruffled its fur and threatened her with its 
little claws. Then it and its mates took refuge 
under the rock ledge, miauling and crying pit- 
eously. 

‘ ‘ Come, come ! I don ’t want to scare you to 
death. If that ’s the way you feel about me, 
I ’ll trot along,” Page said, turning away. 

Just then the cries were echoed — no, not ech- 
oed, but answered by a sound that made her 
blood run cold — sharp, snarling cries, repeated 
again and again and again, each time louder 
and fiercer and nearer. Page started to run, 
and then with a gasp she stopped. For the 
sounds were coming down the tunnel. That 
furious, savage creature — was it a bear whose 
den she had run into? — was between her and 
the mouth of the gorge! Terror-stricken, she 
stood as if rooted to the spot. 

Suddenly there appeared in the gloom two 
glowing balls. They looked like huge moon- 
stones, but moonstones that were alive and 
angry and that moved toward her. For one 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


37 


terrified instant Page stood stock-still. Then 
she turned her flash-light, and saw behind the 
gleaming orbs a dark mass of fur. 

As the light flashed in the creature’s face, 
it stopped and gave an angry snarl. The 
kittens uttered whining, importunate calls, 
urging their mother to come to them. She 
answered with a wailing cry, scratching her 
claws on the rock and arching her back, but she 
did not go forward. Though she was bold and 
eager to attack the intruder, she dared not ap- 
proach that fearful, mysterious light. 

She sprang on the large projecting rock at 
the outer edge of the tunnel, and crouched for 
a downward spring. Page turned the flash-light 
just in time. With a snarl, the beast drew back 
and cowered on the rock. The light blinked — 
for an instant Page thought that it was out — 
but it gleamed again with a dull yellow glare. 
The creature backed away, jumped from the 
rock, and, with her head down to avoid the light, 
crept step by step along the tunnel toward 
Page. Ten feet away, she crouched to spring. 
By the flickering light the terrified girl saw 
the body arched like a bow, the sinewy legs, the 


38 WHISTLING JIMPS 

threatening claws, the snarling lips, the sharp, 
cruel teeth. 

So far, the duel between the beast trying to 
get to her young and the girl unwillingly block- 
ing the way had been a silent one on Page’s 
part. Now she found her voice and shrieked: 

“Harrison! Chris! Come! Come help me! 
Oh, help me! help me! Help! help!” 

Her voice died in the windings of the rock. 
No sound of it went across the pleasant, sunlit 
mountain-side to the merry party at Sweetwater 
Spring. The only answer was the snarling of 
the brute, rising into a tierce yowl above the 
girl’s terrified cries, and the impatient calls of 
the kittens summoning their mother. The 
beast came nearer. The light was now shining 
very faintly, a mere glimmering speck. 

And then, from behind the rock on the side 
of the tunnel, there came a queer soft little 
purring sound. The beast turned her head ; her 
snarl died away in a sort of answering purr. 

That soft little noise was even more terrify- 
ing to Page than the furious cries, for it took 
away her faintest hope of escape. It was, she 
thought, the call of the wild creature’s mate, 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


39 


which was creeping toward her through a crev- 
ice in the rock. In a moment it, too, would 
attack her. She could not tight them both. 
While she was trying to fend off one, the other 
would spring. 

For a second that seemed endless, Page 
stood paralyzed with terror. But she must 
keep the ne*w foe off as long as possible. She 
turned her flash-light toward the side of the 
tunnel; and — the light flickered and went out! 
She uttered a piercing shriek, a wild cry of ter- 
ror and despair, let the useless flash-light fall 
clattering on the rock, and, throwing her hands 
over her face, shrank back from the expected 
attack. 

And then, instead of that dreaded agony, 
there came a gentle, drawling voice : 

“Don’t holler. She ain’t goin’ to hurt 
you.” 

The sweet, sleepy, soothing, purring calls 
were repeated — appealing, luring, irresistible. 
The kittens stopped miauling and gave soft 
answering sounds. They rolled out of their 
nest — Page could hear them slipping along the 
rock beside her — and went with little eager 


40 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


cries toward the calling voice. The mother 
began to protest, but that gentle, coaxing call 
took the fierce heart out of her, and she 
changed her snarl to a reluctant, appeased purr. 
One by one, the kittens went through the crev- 
ice beside the rock, from which issued a streak 
of faint light. Their mother uttered an un- 
certain questioning call, between a mew and a 
snarl. Then Page heard her padding feet ; for 
a moment her moving body obscured the dim 
light. 

“She *s come out now. You go on up the 
tunnel, out o’ her way.” 

Page groped along upward. It seemed a 
horribly long time that she went stumbling on, 
fearing there would come behind her a soft 
patter, fierce snarls, attacking claws and teeth. 
But nothing happened. At last the gloom in 
front of her grew less dense, and then she saw 
a faint ray of light. She hurried to the open- 
ing of the tunnel, clambered out into the gorge, 
and, trembling so violently that she could not 
stand, sank down on a rock. 

It was very quiet and peaceful. A vagrant 
breeze stirred the foliage of the birch-trees and 


WHISTLING JIMPS 41 

set the shadows and sunshine dancing on the 
gray rocks. From afar came the voices and 
laughter of her friends. Nearer at hand, she 
heard still those strange, sweet, coaxing calls. 

“You all right now?” asked a soft voice. 

Page did not answer. If her trembling legs 
had supported her, she would have fled, without 
a look or a word for her rescuer. But as she 
sat there in the warm, bright outdoors and re- 
gained strength, she recovered courage also. 
And so presently she went down the gorge and 
turned to the left, around the rock that, split 
off from the cliff, made the outer wall of the 
gorge and of the tunnel. 

There, in the full sunlight, a boy was 
sprawled upon a large flat rock in the middle of 
a thicket of ferns. One of the kittens was on 
his lifted forearm, another was nuzzling under 
his chin, the third fat uncertain little body was 
scrambling up his leg. The mother — watchful, 
alert, a little shy, but not at all frightened— 
was standing near the crevice in the rocks 
from which she had just emerged. 

Perhaps a leaf rustled or a twig cracked 
underfoot, perhaps it was merely the instinct 


42 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


of the wild creature that recognized the pres- 
ence of an intruder, — as Page came from be- 
hind the rock and stared at the strange sylvan 
scene, the beast turned her head. Her fur 
bristled and she uttered a low snarl. 

‘‘She won’t hurt you,” said the boy, looking 
at Page without moving. 

“It — it ’s you — Jimps Farlan!” she ex- 
claimed. 

In her terror she had not recognized his 
voice. And now she gazed wonderingly at 
him lying there among the wild creatures as if 
he were one of them. 

‘ ‘ She won ’t hurt you , 9 9 he repeated. 

Indeed, the beast showed no signs of fight. 
The snarling cry died in her throat, and was 
followed by a summoning call that brought 
the kittens scrambling from Jimps to her. 
With them at her heels, she went back into the 
crevice. 

“Is — is that all the big she is?” asked Page, 
looking in amazment at the reddish, black- 
marked animal with black-tipped bobtail. Al- 
though it was muscular and powerful-looking 
for its size, it was not more than two feet long. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


43 


‘ ‘ There in the tunnel, bristled up, with claws 
out and eyes shining — oh! it seemed huge. I 
thought it was a bear, or — or — What is it!” 

“She ’s a old bobcat,” Jimps answered. 
“They got the name o’ bein’ the fightin’est 
things in the mountains. Pap used to say it 
took a good man to tight his weight in wild- 
cats. She mought ’a’ clawed yore eyes out. 
What make you go in thar an’ git twixen her 
an’ her babies?” 

“I didn’t mean to,” said Page. “I didn’t 
know they were there. I scrambled in to ex- 
plore the place, and I heard the little things, 
and then I saw them. I thought they were 
tame kittens — only I ’d never seen such big 
ones — and I was trying to make friends. Then 
she came — that awful, snarling, crouching, hor- 
rible beast ! Ugh ! I was so scared ! I thought 
she was going to pounce on me. But she kept 
back till my light gave out.” 

“Yore light skeered her off,” said Jimps. 
“Lucky for you ! They aim for the throat, an’ 
tight tooth an’ claw. But they don’t pester 
folks ’less you git in thar way.” 

“I thought surely it was a bear that was go- 


44 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


ing to kill me,” said Page. “A bobcat, you 
call it? Is that a panther?” 

“Uh, naw. Some folks call ’em wildcats. 
Thar ain’t no painters here ’bouts now. Folks 
say they used to roam these mountains. 
They ’re bigger ’n bobcats. Pap’s granddaddy 
knowed a woman over on Wolf Creek that shot 
one nine foot long. I sure would like to seen 
it.” 

* ‘ I would n ’t, ” Page said decidedly. 

It was so bright and peaceful and safe out 
here in the open that she forgot her terror. 
She stood looking down with a half-smile at the 
boy, who lay quite still, cuddled on the sun- 
warmed rock. What a wild charm there 
was in the grotesque little face ! What was the 
heart of the charm — the mobile red lips that 
pursed themselves into such alluring sweet 
notes? or the comical uptilted nose? or the 
little pointed chin? or the quaint peaked eye- 
brows? or the clear bright eyes under the long 
dark lashes? 

“How did you come here?” Page asked pres- 
ently, with a start. 

“Walked,” Jimps answered briefly. After 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


45 


a while he added: “That slim, fun-makin , boy 
said yestiddy you was comin , here to-day; so I 
jest roamed over.” 

“I ’m thankful you did,” said Page. “You 
kept that brute from killing me.” 

He shook his head. It seemed as if speech 
were troublesome to him, and he had a trick 
of frequent gestures, of drifting from words 
into whistles and chirps and vague woodland 
sounds like rippling brooks or breeze- swayed 
boughs. “She mought ’a’ clawed you pretty 
bad, but she wouldn’t ’a’ killed you,” he said 
at last. “They do kill lambs an’ things. But 
not folks. An’ they don’t fight you ’less you 
git ’em cornered or bother thar young ones. 
They ’re skeered o’ folks.” 

“They were n’t afraid of you,” said Page. 

“Uh, naw. Ef you hadn’t ’a’ come, them 
kittens would ’a’ stayed an’ played with me 
half the day, an ’ presen ’ly the old mammy bob- 
cat would ’a’ come an’ lay down here on the 
rock. Things ain’t feared o’ me.” 

“Things?” repeated Page. 

“Things,” said Jimps again; “bobcats, an’ 
squirrels, an’ birds; tilings.” 


46 WHISTLING JIMPS 

“Do you mean to say,” inquired Page, “that • 
other creatures are n’t afraid of you, any more 
than those kittens or our parrot?” 

“Thar ain’t a thing in the mountains that 
won ’t friend with me, ’ ’ said the boy. ‘ ‘ N othin ’ 
but snakes.” He made a shivering grimace. 
“I don ’t call snakes ‘ things.’ I hate ’em. 
Eigh!” He put his loathing in a cry at once 
shrill and guttural. 

“They are horrible,” Page agreed. 

“A rattler bit my baby sister,” said Jimps, 
turning from the sunlight and crouching down 
on the rock. “It bit her on the neck. Ugh! 
She screeched — till her throat swelled so she 
couldn’t holler.” 

“It — it didn’t kill her?” faltered Page, ap- 
palled by the change in Jimps, the mortal 
hatred and horror on the face a minute before 
so care-free and blithe. 

He nodded. 

“I was mighty little — she was the baby 
younger ’n me — but ev’y time I see a rattler, I 
c’n see her face, swelled an’ spotty purple. 
Ugh! I hate snakes.” His face was pallid, 
his voice was strained and difficult, as if his ex- 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


47 


ceeding great fear were a bodily thing that 
caught him by the throat. 

“Aren’t you afraid a rattlesnake will bite 
you, roaming about the woods!” asked Page. 

“I keep out thar way,” said the boy. “Ef 
I chance nigh one, I run ’way ’fore it charms 
me.” 

“Charms you!” exclaimed Page. “I ’ve 
heard people say snakes charm birds and 
frogs. I always thought that was just a tale. 
But people — surely not!” 

“They sure do. They stretch tharselves 
out, an’ weave thar heads up an’ down, with 
thar mean little eyes shinin’ on you. An’ you 
stand foot-fast. Then they strike. They hit 
you like a flash o’ lightning.” 

“Nonsense! You never knew a snake to 
charm any one really, did you!” 

“One charmed my pappy,” Jimps said 
slowly and impressively. 

“What!” exclaimed Page. 

He nodded his head emphatically. “It sure 
did. He e’en-a ’most died.” 

“Tell me about it,” said Page. 

Jimps merely shrugged his shoulders; but, 


48 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


when she urged him, he gave a sigh and put 
the story into words. 

“ Pappy snared a rattler onct,” he said. 
“He was aimin’ to skin it an’ sell its hide to 
summer folks. An’ ’t was sich a fat old fellow 
he was goin’ to make rattlesnake oil to cure 
rheumatiz. Well, ’t wa’n’t no use to kill it 
’fore night, for its tail wouldn’t die till sun- 
down. So pappy sot thar lookin’ at the snake, 
an’ it lay lookin’ at him. Presen ’ly mammy 
come out an’ say, 4 Why n’t you hang up that 
rattler?’ Pap didn’t say nothin’, an’ mammy 
cotch up the snare an’ hung it up on a peg. 

“Come a while, it swung down limp an’ 
stringy — an’ then pappy drapped liken he was 
dead. Mammy knowed right away what was 
the matter. She snatched down the rattler an’ 
loosed the snare. An’ when that snake wiggled, 
pappy come to life. I tell you, we was glad to 
kill that old rattler next day. ’ ’ 

“Next day! Why didn’t you kill it at 
once?” asked Page. 

“Lawzee, naw!” exclaimed Jimps. “Pappy 
would ’a’ died ef we ’d killed the snake ’fore 
the charm was off ’n him.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


49 


He was so much in earnest that, although 
Page could not quite believe his story, it im- 
pressed her deeply. She was about to ask an- 
other question, when there came a halloo: 

“Page! 0 Page! where are you? Come to 
lunch, Pagie!” 

“It ’b Harrison ,’ ’ said Page. “They are 
pretty late thinking about me. I mighti be 
dead by this time.” 

“Pa-a-age!” 

i ‘ Whoo-ee ! I ’m coming, ’ ’ she called. 

She turned back to Jimps. He shook him- 
self and passed the back of his hand over his 
eyes. Then he sprawled out in the sunshine 
and spoke in his usual slow, sweet voice : 

“H’m! It feels good in the sun.” 

“Come and have lunch with us,” said Page. 

He shook his head. 

“I wish you would,” she urged. “We ’d be 
so glad to have you.” 

Jimps did not answer. 

“Well, I must go,” said Page. “Thank 
you and thank you for saving me from the 
wildcat. Good-by. Or perhaps I ’ll see you 
when you come up the path.” 


50 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“I ain’t travelin’ the path,’’ said the boy. 
“I ’m goin’ back like I come — that-a-way. ’ ’ 
He pointed to the unbroken woods at the north- 
west. 

“ Are n’t you afraid of getting lost?” 

Jimps laughed. “I go anywhar. Three 
year ago I coursed my way over in West Vir- 
ginia. It was forty mile; some say it ’s fifty. 
It took me two days to walk it. Pappy p ’inted 
the way an’ I coursed it.” 

Page looked at him in amazement. “ Three 
years ago you went all that way by yourself! 
Why, you were n ’t — How old are you now ? ’ ’ 

“I ’m younger hi Minta, an’ thar was 
Mandy twixen me an’ Nance,” said Jimps. 

“You went that distance, without even fol- 
lowing a road, when you were — you couldn’t 
have been more than ten years old,” said 
Page. “Why did you go?” 

“I dunno. Nothin’. I jest wanted to see 
’yon’ the mountains.” 

“It ’s the most wonderful thing I ever heard 
of,” said Page. “No! The most wonderful 
thing is the way you make friends with ani- 
mals.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


51 


“I know a place whar thar ’s three kinds o’ 
squirrels,” said Jimps: ‘ 4 gray squirrels, big 
old fox-squirrels, an’ little red mountain boom- 
ers. An ’ they all know me. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I ’d adore to see them. Do take me 
there/ ’ Page said eagerly. 

He shook his head. “I ain’t nuver showed 
that place to nobody, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ I ain ’t nuver 
keered to have nobody in the woods with me; 
nobody but Grief.” 

“Grief!” exclaimed Page. 

“Um-h’m.” The word was merely a name 
to him. “He was sich a fat, happy baby. 
He ’d lay by the hour watchin’ things an’ 
cooin’ to ’em, an’ they wa’n’t feared o’ him.” 

“Oh! Grief was the name of your little 
brother. Where is he now?” 

“Dead.” 

Page gave a murmur of sympathy. 

“The things don’t like folks.” Jimps 
paused, then he said: “But I c’n show you them 
sparklers. They ’re in a place nobody knows 
but me. Can’t nobody see ’em what thought 
I stole that old woman’s rings. You c’n see 
’em, ef you come by yoreself to Failin’ Water.” 


52 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“I certainly will come, ,, said Page. ‘ i To- 
morrow — no, the day after. We are to picnic 
at Squirrel Spring. I ’ll slip away from the 
others and come. Oh, won’t it he fun!” 

“I c’n come nigh the spring an’ whistle for 
you — so-o. Say! You better not roam by 
yoreself ’long Failin’ Water. You mought 
come ’cross folks.” 

1 i Folks? Who? And what if I did?” in- 
quired Page. 

“I dunno. I dunno nothin’ ’bout ’em, an’ I 
ain’t tryin’ to find out nothin’. ’T ain’t none 
o’ my business. Some folks is worse ’n bob- 
cats to come on unexpected.” 

“I don’t believe that,” said Page. “Well, 
I ’ll be on the lookout for you Friday morn- 
ing. Good-by.” 


CHAPTER HI 


4 T_T EIGH-OH ! ’ ’ Chris gave a sigh, half 
li feigned, half real. “Gee, Page! this 
place is hopeless. Bog, squash, slush, quag- 
mire; why, it isn’t a spring at all. And here 
we Ve tramped two miles from Hilltop Lake, 
two useless old miles from a canoe or diving- 
board.” He sighed again. 

“The — the trees here are lovely,” said 
Page, gazing at the stately oaks and chestnuts 
on the gently sloping side of Gap Mountain. 

Chris laughed. “It isn’t the trees we are 
to 4 welfare work,’ is it? Look at that spring. 
I just ask you to look at it!” 

Squirrel Spring was indeed an unlovely 
place. The herds of cattle that grazed the 
summer mountains had trampled the oozing 
water, the mold, and the dead leaves into a 
thick black mud. If ever flowers and fair 
plants had been there, they had been destroyed. 
Now there was only a great clump of skunk- 

53 


54 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


cabbage, spreading abroad a carrion odor to 
lure insects for it to devour. 

‘ ‘ Shut your eyes — ” said Elinor. 

‘ ‘ And your nose — faugh!” exclaimed Mary. 

“Do, with your mind's eye, what Mr. Kin- 
man calls the ‘real seeing,' " Elinor went on. 
“Can't you see this spring — a clear little pool 
under these lovely trees, with a flower-bordered 
brook?” 

“I see a lot of hard work ahead of us,” said 
Chris, dolefully. 

“Let 's get to it. Here!” Harrison handed 
Chris the hoe, and flourished the spade in air. 
“Hey for the shovel and the hoe! The first 
thing is to clean out the spring and deepen the 
channel. Dave, suppose you and Sandy bring 
stones to wall in the spring; all sizes and 
shapes for the sides; we '11 need a big flat one 
for the top, to protect it from the cattle. We 
must scoop out a watering-place for them 
down-stream. ' ' 

“While you boys are doing that, we '11 get 
flowers to transplant here,” said Mrs. Harvie. 

“There are lots of them — jewel- weed, turtle- 
head, asters, cardinal-flowers, steeple-bush, 


WHISTLING JIMPS 55 

swamp honeysuckle — at the foot of the moun- 
tain^ suggested Anne Lewis. 

The girls strolled away with Mrs. Harvie — 
all except Page Ruffin, who announced that she 
was going to help get stones. She worked 
diligently for a while, but with an abstracted, 
listening mien that the boys were too busy to 
notice. When she heard a clear, sweet, sum- 
moning whistle, she started and dropped a 
stone. “I ’m* going to leave you boys to finish 
this,” she said. “Look for me back when you 
see me.” 

“Here! this is your job,” said Chris. 
“You ’ve dragged us in it; now stay and take 
your own medicine.” 

Page gave him a mocking grimace. 

“Don’t go away, Pagie!” begged Sandy. 
“Everything ’s so much more fun with you.” 

“Thank you!” Page swept him a curtsy. 
“But I Ve something special on hand.” 

“Where are you going?” Harrison asked. 

“Oh! ‘ Through the woods and far away/ ” 
she answered lightly. 

“I ’ll go with you, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ Here, Dave ! 
you take the spade.” 


56 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“I don’t want you.” 

Harrison well knew that self-willed uptilt 
of his cousin’s determined little chin, and he 
hesitated and looked around for Mrs. Harvie; 
but she was out of sight. 

“Page! Page!” He followed his cousin. 
“Please don’t stray off alone. I ’m sure Mrs. 
Harvie would n ’t like it, nor Cousin Dabney. 
He asked me to look out for you. You have 
such a way of putting yourself in the wildcat’s 
den before you realize what you ’re doing!” 
Page refused to answer his smile, and he went 
on gravely: “It scares me to think what might 
have happened Wednesday. Please don’t 
wander off alone, Pagie. Let me go with 
you.” 

“I ’ve told you I don’t want you, Harri- 
son,” was the curt answer. “Why you want 
to follow me and spy on me — ” 

Harrison flushed. “That isn’t fair, Page; 
and you know it.” 

“Of course not!” Page said impatiently. 
“I beg your pardon. You make me say horrid 
things that I don’t mean. You do worry me 
so, tagging after me!” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


57 


“ Promise you ’ll not go out of hearing, 
Page,” said Harrison. “You ought not — you 
know you ought not — to go off in the woods 
alone.” 

‘ 4 It is n’t alone, if you must know, Mr. Med- 
dlesome Matty!” she answered tartly, but 
lowering her voice so it would not reach the 
Harvies. 4 4 It ’s a secret, and you are not to 
tell. Jimps Farlan is going with me.” 

“Jimps Farlan! Why, Page! You — ” 

“Yes; Jimps Farlan. You needn’t be so 
surprised and scornful. He came to my help 
when no one else was bothering about me. 
He is just a little mountaineer — as you were, 
Harrison Ruffin, when we first knew you; and 
why you should object to my making friends 
with mountaineers — If we hadn’t happened 
to meet you, and father found out about your 
father — ” 

4 4 That ’ll do, thank you, Page,” Harrison 
interrupted, flushing with amazement and 
anger. “I assure you I realize everything. 
I am grateful to you and -Cousin Dabney — ” 

Page rushed back and threw her arms 
around her cousin, putting her cheek against 


58 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


his lips to stop what he was saying. “Oh, 
that sounded horrid ! I did n ’t mean it that 
way at all; indeed I didn’t, dear Harrison, 
you worrying, troublesome, precious old dar- 
ling! Now run along back and let me alone, 
for I ’m going. There can’t be any harm in 
it, or any danger.” 

“0 Page! You don’t know where there ’s 
harm and danger. You don’t know these 
mountaineers. I do; and — well, I ’m afraid 
for you. If instead of stumbling on father, 
the night you were lost, you had met Rannell 
Gooch — do you know he killed a peddler for 
his pack of goods? And you had your rings 
and watch. Or if you had straggled on the 
other side of Bent Mountain into Rocky Hol- 
low, where that desperate villain Bill Poole 
lives — 0 Page! Most of our mountain peo- 
ple are good, honest, upright, kind, the best 
folks in the world; but there are some mean, 
lawless riffraff in the mountain coves. The 
worst are these Pooles and Farlans; they ’ve 
had a feud for years, and they ’re all ready with 
knives and shot-guns. If any little thing made 
the quarrel break out afresh, and a Poole met 


WHISTLING JIMPS 59 

Jimps Farlan, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot 
because you were in gun-range.” 

“Harrison! All you say may be — oh! of 
course it is — true, but it has nothing to do 
with me. I am not going ’way off in unknown 
places, among Gooches and feuds and things. 
I ’m only going with Jimps Farlan along Fall- 
ing Water, a stream we ’ve picnicked on dozens 
of times. He ’s going to show me — some- 
thing he ’ll not let any one else see.” She 
started as the clear summoning whistle came 
again. “I ’m gone. Good-by!” 

For a moment Harrison stood, undecided 
whether to return to the spring or to follow 
Page in spite of her protests; then, frowning, 
he went slowly back to Squirrel Spring. 

Page, meanwhile, hurried through the 
woods in the direction of the summoning 
whistle. Presently she saw Jimps, lying flat 
on the ground, with his arms stretched out as 
if to draw all the woodland into their circle. 
Two or three juncos were on the ground near 
him, and a wren on an azalea-bush beside him 
was chirruping as if he were another bird or 
no more alien than the flowers and trees. The 


60 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


birds flew away when Page approached, but 
Jimps did not move ; he only looked up, giving 
her a strange feeling as if he were at once very 
near and very far away. It must be his eyes, 
she decided, those queer light, bright eyes, as 
lucid and impenetrable as a deep, clear lake or 
the illimitable depths of the sky. 

There was a moment’s silence, and Page felt 
as if Jimps were drifting away far and farther. 
She spoke abruptly, with a vague feeling that 
words would drag him back. “I ’m here,” 
she said. 

He gave a little sigh and sat up. 

“How did you come?” asked Page. 

He made a careless gesture. “ ’Cross the 
mountain. It ’s nighest.” 

“Don’t you ever follow paths?” Page 
wanted to know. 

“Uh, yes! An’ I makes ’em.” 

“It must have been people like you that 
crossed these mountains first,” said Page; 
“outdoorsy people that loved to roam in wild 
places. But they followed roads, the history 
books say, — roads our highways and railroads 
follow now, — that the buffaloes made.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


61 

“Buff’loes?” repeated Jimps. “ ’S them a 
kind o’ Injuns ?” 

‘‘Oh, no! The Indians followed the buf- 
falo roads, too. Buffaloes are huge beasts. 
There used to be millions and millions of them. 
Now there aren’t any here in the East, and 
only a few herds in Western parks.” 

”1 bet I ’ve seen ’em — gre’t big things that 
keep outen the way o’ folks. I ’ve seen ’em 
on ’Way-High Mountain. They ’ve got gre’t 
big horns, ain’t they?” 

Page tried to remember pictures of buffaloes. 
“I don’t think they have horns — yes, they have 
— oh, I don ’t know ! I know how they look till 
I try to remember exactly, and then they get 
hazy. But I ’ve studied about them. They used 
to roam in huge herds from one feeding-ground 
to another, following the same route year after 
year. Sometimes a great herd would get 
frightened and stampede, and their thousands 
of rushing hoofs sounded like thunder and 
made the earth quake.” 

“Whew! I ’d like to see ’em,” said Jimps. 
“Tell some more.” 

“I — I don’t remember any more. You 


62 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


learn lots of things at school — and forget 
them,” confessed Page. “Jimps, did you 
ever go to school!” 

He shook his head. “An* I ain’t nuver 
goin’ to,” he said serenely. 

Talking, laughing, or silent, they went on 
through the woods. Sometimes they ran 
merry races along the open glades; sometimes 
they played hide-and-seek in the tangled 
forest. Page did not quite like this game ; for 
whenever Jimps was out of sight she had an 
uneasy feeling that he might never reappear. 
She liked better to go on with him, though she 
had to take the pace he set — flitting along like 
a glancing sunbeam, loitering like a shadow, or 
stopping to look at an odd tree, a bird, or an 
insect that she would never have seen if he 
had not pointed it out. 

“Why, here we are at Butterfly Flat, right 
at the SiboldsM” Page exclaimed presently. 

In front of them was a little glade at the 
nearer end of which was the Sibolds’ home, a 
small whitewashed shanty. There were two or 
three dwelling-rooms, and a shed where Mr. 
Sibold kept a tiny shop and sold oil, meat, 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


63 


shoes, coarse cloth, matches, tobacco, and am- 
munition. He kept, too, a post-office and dis- 
tributed the occasional letters and papers that 
the mail rider left. There was a homely neat- 
ness about the rough little dwelling. Zinnias 
and marigolds beside the walk grew in prim 
lines, and the hops and morning-glories beside 
the porch were trained on strings in diamond- 
shaped patterns. 

Page stood still and looked at the house. 

“I ’m coming here to stay a while when we 
break camp next week,” she said. “ Harrison 
is taking a hike, and he ’s to come back and go 
home with me. Mr. Sibold ’s going to put up 
a hammock. And Mrs. Sibold makes the best 
doughnuts ! — Jimps !” she called the boy, who 
was going on without waiting for her. “ Jimps! 
do you see anybody ? They ’ll stop us, and talk 
and talk, and they ’ll ask where I ’m going. 
Pshaw! I don’t want to go by there.” 

“The path goes *cross the flat,” said Jimps; 
“but we c’n skirmish a way through the brush. 
You c’n have yore ruthers.” 

“Oh, the brush every time!” cried Page. 

Jimps led her through the tangled edge of 


64 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


the forest and came out on the lower end of 
Butterfly Flat. It was a grassy, level space 
between Deer and ’Way-High mountains, 
where Falling Water paused in its headlong 
course and went gently, murmuring like a 
drowsy child. The flat was overlaid with ber- 
gamot and daisies and milkweeds; above it 
blue and yellow butterflies fluttered and poised, 
and at every step grasshoppers rose in whir- 
ring, radiating lines. 

“Now Sibolds can’t see us,” said Jimps. “I 
like this here place.” 

“Oh! it is lovely, lovely!” said Page, draw- 
ing in long breaths of the sweet, fresh air, as 
if she were taking in with it the beauty of the 
little valley. 

Jimps dropped down on the ground and ran 
his fingers tenderly through the blades of 
grass. Then he laughed, starting like a bird- 
note and going into ripples like the merry 
little stream. 

“What are you laughing at?” asked Page. 

“Nothin’,” he answered. “This here place 
al’ays makes me laugh with it.” 

The smile froze on his lips. He sprang up, 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


65 


pale and trembling, with a shivering cry. As 
Page looked at him her own face blanched. 
He was terrified — at what? Before she could 
question, almost before she could wonder, 
Jimps’s face cleared. 

“ ’T ain’t a rattler,” he said. “Hit ’s a 
dry-fly.” But he had lost his desire to loiter. 
“Come on,” he said. 

They went on down the gorge. You might 
have looked twice without seeing the path they 
followed beside the stream. Higher on the 
bluff was a sawmill road, a mere shelf on the 
mountain-side. This followed the left side of 
Falling Water up from a little settlement on 
Woods River, called Manson; crossed the 
stream at Butterfly Flat ; turned eastward into 
the forest; and finally joined the main road 
that led to West Virginia. 

There was another road from Butterfly Flat. 
It took a westerly direction down the gap be- 
tween Deer and Gap mountains; circled moun- 
tain-spurs; and meandered down to the river, 
where there was a ferry-boat crossing to New 
Canaan, the county town. Thence a road led 
up Woods River to Manson. 


66 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Roughly speaking, the Falling Water road 
from Butterfly Flat to Manson was like the 
straight side of the letter D and the gap route 
was like the rounded side. These are roads 
we must remember, for we shall travel them 
more than once, sometimes in dire need and 
hot haste. 

Page and Jimps went down Falling Water 
till they came to Rocky Hollow, a narrow val- 
ley on the right. Rocky Run flowed for two or 
three miles almost parallel with Falling Water, 
from which the steep rugged ridge of ’Way- 
High Mountain separated it. Here, just above 
Crystal Falls, the mountain ended in a bluff, 
and Rocky Run joined Falling Water. 

U I Ve seen them critters, buff ’loes you call 
’em, go up this here hollow on the clifft side 
o’ ’Way-High,” said Jimps. 

“Let ’s go up the hollow, and perhaps we ’ll 
see them,” suggested Page. 

“Ump-m’m!” Jimps made a dissenting 
murmur. “Mean folks live thar.” 

“We ’ve seen one cabin; about half a mile 
up-stream, it seems to be. We saw it from 
Deer Mountain,” said Page. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


67 


“That ’s old Shearam’s. He ’s a mean 
man. He ’s meaner ’n the Pooles. They live 
— old Bill an’ Marthy — higher up that hollow, 
an’ they ’re the meanest folks in the world. 
Ef Bill see me nigh his house, he ’ d lief shoot 
me.” 

s “Oh! Why!” exclaimed Page. 

“My folks an’ his don’t git on so good. He 
got the drap on pappy.” 

“The drap on him!” Page did not under- 
stand. 

“Um-h’m. He ’s got a mighty straight- 
shootin’ gun. But I ’ll plant him some day.” 

“Jimps! Do you mean he killed your 
father! How awful! But that ’s a thing for 
the law to punish, not for you. It ’s wicked — 
awfully, terribly wrong — to kill people.” 

“Not Pooles,” said Jimps. “Look whar 
you step. You hurt that flower.” He gently 
straightened the stem of the yellow-fringed 
orchis that she had bent. 

The flower and the place they were approach- 
ing reminded Page of an adventure that turned 
her thoughts from Jimps ’s affairs and made 
her shudder. 


68 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“I came near breaking my neck here at 
Crystal Falls/ ’ she said. 

“It ’s sure a pretty place/ ’ said Jimps 
calmly; he seldom troubled himself to question 
or to sympathize with others. “That water 
looks like it ’s alive. It hits them rocks now,” 
he said, looking at the stream that plunged 
from a ledge, struck some shelving rocks, and 
went, broken and foaming, into a deep pool. 
“But flood-times it makes a clean jump. Uh, 
then it ’s a sight ! ’ ’ 

Page followed him to the pool-side, and they 
stood looking up at the glittering shaft of the 
upper waterfall and at the ledge of sandstone, 
fringed with rhododendrons and hemlocks, 
that semicircled on the right and overhung a 
bare wall of shale. A little farther down- 
stream the wall rose steep and straight, but 
with vines and shrubs in its cracks and crev- 
ices. Page’s eyes were fixed on the shelving 
rock beside the falls. 

“And I — I tried to climb up there,” she said, 
shuddering. 

“Thar ’s whar we ’re goin’ now,” Jimps 
said, pointing to the overhanging ledge. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


69 


“No!” cried Page. i 1 Oh, I wouldn’t try it 
again, not for the world! I got half-way up. 
It makes my knees feel like water just to think 
of going up that steep, slippery, rotten rock.” 

“I go up thar,” said Jimps. “That ’s whar 
my sparklers is.” 

“Up there!” gasped Page. “You really 
climb that wall ? ’ ’ 

“Sure. Come on.” 

“No! no! no!” cried Page. “If you can — I 
don’t see how it ’s possible — oh ! I never could.” 

“It ’s like goin’ up steps, onct you know the 
way,” said Jimps. “Thar ’s jest one place. 
Cross yore heart an’ sw’ar, Injun true, not to 
tell, an’ 1 ’ll show it to you.” 

“Oh! I ’ll promise. I ’d like to see the 
place. But I ’m not going to try to climb up 
there; not ever again!” 

She followed Jimps across the stream to the 
foot of the wall. 

“See here!” he said. 

He put his foot on a projecting rock, caught 
hold of a rhododendron branch, stepped into 
a crevice, and pulled himself up by a hemlock 
root. 


70 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Oh! I can do that,” said Page. “But I y m 
not going any farther.” 

“It ’ s jest as easy up here,” Jimps said, 
following a narrow ledge along the sheer cliff 
till he came to a crevice where rocks and roots 
offered foothold and handhold. “Don’t be 
afeared an’ it ’s safe. Put yore foot whar my 
foot goes. Don’t trusten yore weight to rock 
or root till you know it ’s steady. ’ ’ 

As he showed the way, it seemed so safe and 
easy that Page followed him. They passed 
the clinging or trailing verdure, and came out 
on a ledge. From below, indeed, this ledge 
seemed the top of the cliff; on it grew the 
rhododendrons and hemlocks they had seen 
from below; but in front of them there was a 
higher, overhanging ledge. They followed the 
shelf they were on until it broadened and 
sloped inward, making a little nook under the 
upper rock. Jimps stopped and pointed an 
eager finger at the nook. 

“Thar ’s my sparklers!” 

* ‘ Oh ! oh ! o-oh ! ’ ’ Page exclaimed with won- 
der and delight. 

Never in her life had she seen such lovely 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


71 


mosses. They covered the bottom and the 
sides of the nook, and even the under surface 
of the overhanging ledge, where they looked 
like a little upside-down forest. But Page saw 
them merely as a verdant background for a 
galaxy of radiant, brilliant gems. The mois- 
ture that trickled down the cliff and came in 
spray from the waterfall hung in drops and 
droplets on an exquisite moss with thin trans- 
lucent leaves, like tiny plates of green copper. 
The sunshine transformed each globule on each 
leaflet into a glittering jewel — diamond, topaz, 
emerald, ruby, sapphire. 

‘ ‘ That blue one ’s the prettiest thing I ever 
saw,” said Page. 

‘ 4 Look at that big green one,” said Jimps. 
“An* thar ’s one redder ’n fire.” 

“O-oh! that one ’s fairly blazing with all 
colors, like a diamond. See those precious 
yellow ones back there, that look as if they 
were remembering the sunlight. Oh! they are 
all the loveliest things that ever were! How 
on earth did you find them, 'way up here?” 

“I come on ’em one day I was roamin’ ’long 
the cliff t, ’ ’ said Jimps. “I brung Grief up 


72 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


here — uh, it was a push an’ a pull an’ a tote! 
— an’ he laughed an’ grabbed them drops, 
lookin’ so surprised when he opened his hand 
an’ nothin ’ thar but wet!” 

Page laughed. “I can just see him,” she 
said, “as amazed not to get his jewels as Mrs. 
Candler was to get hers. 0 Jimps ! let ’s call 
this the Jewel-Box, and let ’s keep it for our 
hidden treasure. We 11 never tell where it is.” 

“I got no notion o’ telling” said Jimps. 

For a while they amused themselves by 
pointing out to each other the prettiest drops, 
and stirring the moss gently to make them 
glitter. 

Then Jimps said, “You like this so good, 
maybe — I dunno. Well, I reckon it ’s time to 
go.” 

“Go!” With a shudder, Page looked down 
at the stream rushing along its rocky bed a 
hundred feet below. “I — I forgot we had to 
go back. Oh! how can we! I can’t ever 
climb down there!” 

“Uh! that ain’t hard,” Jimps said care- 
lessly. “But it ’s nigher to go up-stream. 
This-a-way.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


73 


He went ahead and showed the way. The 
ledge they were on broke off at the upper end 
of the nook, but they easily mounted on the 
rough rock to the ledge above. This broad- 
ened and sloped downward to the top of the 
waterfall, quite concealing the nook on the 
lower ledge. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Page, looking back. 
“There isn’t a sign of the Jewel-Box! It’s 
hidden and safe, perfectly safe. No one 
would dream anybody ever could climb that 
rock wall. It ’s a beautiful secret. And it ’s 
the loveliest place I know.” 

Jimps did not answer at once. He splashed 
through Falling Water, and Page crossed be- 
hind him on the stones, and they went back to 
the path they had followed down-stream. At 
last he spoke : 

“I know a place that ’s lots prettier.” 

“Where?” asked Page. “I don’t believe 
it ’s prettier than this. It can’t be. Where 
is it, Jimps?” 

“Uh! it ’s not so nigh an’ it ’s not so fur,” 
he said vaguely. “An’ it ’s fine an’ ill-con- 
venient to git to.” 


74 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Jimps! Please show it to me. You will, 
won’t you?” coaxed Page. 

He shook his head, but when they came to 
the foot-bridge at Butterfly Flat, he paused a 
moment and then said, “Come this-a-way . ’ ’ 


CHAPTER IV 


J IMPS went about a mile up the left bank 
of the stream; then he stopped and, look- 
ing sideways at Page, said slowly: “That 
place is nigh, mighty nigh, here. ,, 

“ Pshaw !” She was disappointed. “I ’ve 
been here before. I don’t think it ’s so pretty; 
it can’t compare with the Jewel-Box.” 

“H’m!” said Jimps. “You ain’t nuver see 
that place, not ef you been by it a hunderd 
times. It ’s right here.” 

“Here?” Page looked at the broken stones 
overgrown with wild raspberries and stinging- 
nettles. “You call this pretty?” 

Jimps answered only with a grimace. He 
took a dozen steps upward on the ragged 
stones, seized a rhododendron root, dangled 
in the air, swung around a projecting comer 
of a great stone, and — disappeared. A second 
later his impish face grinned back at Page. 
“That ’s the only way to git here,” he said. 

75 


76 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Page caught the root — and released it. 
Suppose she should fall? 

Jimps laughed mockingly. 

She grasped the root again, bit her lips and 
shut her eyes, and, swinging dizzily out over 
space, alighted at Jimps *s side. 

Was there ever a lovelier spot? The loose 
rocks made a semicircular wall, with thick- 
growing chestnut woods at the top, inclosing 
a dell about fifty feet long and half as wide. 
In the center there was an open space across 
which lay the trunk of a giant hemlock; be- 
hind it stood its great moss-covered stump. 
The place was carpeted with hemlock needles, 
brown and soft and fragrant. Here and there 
was a splotch of gray or pale-green moss, or 
of dark-green partridge-berry set with scarlet 
globules. 

The sunlight that flickered through the hem- 
lock boughs was subdued, as if the trees had 
sighed some message that quieted its mirth. 
But on the southern side of the dell the rocks 
dropped down to Falling Water — so near that 
its ripplings and tinklings mingled with the 
swishing of the hemlocks — and the sunlit tops 


WHISTLING JIMPS 77 

of the birches beside the stream made a radi- 
ant rim for the dell. 

Page was in an ecstasy of delight. “How 
lovely it is! how sweet it is! how soft it is! 
how musical it is!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I 
didn't know a place could look and feel and 
sound like this!” 

“The path ain't ten foot away from here, 
down them rocks,” said Jimps. 

“How did you ever find it, shut in and 
locked up so?” 

“I followed a squirrel in here last summer,” 
Jimps answered. “I 've been cornin' here 
right along since then. Now you set down 
under them thick bushes” — he pointed to a 
clump of rhododendrons — “an' don't you 
move or wink or say a word. An' you '11 see 
— what you see. ' ' 

Page crept under the bushes and sat down 
on the leaf-carpeted ground, and looked out at 
Jimps. 

In his dingy clothes and with his shaggy 
locks and wild, free face, he seemed as much 
a part of the place as the hemlocks and the 
birch-trees. He stood very still for a while — 


78 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


so still that one of the copper-colored butter- 
flies drifting about and pausing in the sun- 
shine alighted on him as unaffrighted as on 
the mossy log. 

Moving as lightly as a bit of thistledown, 
Jimps flitted to the hemlock stump. He raised 
his face, and a wandering sunbeam found and 
brightened it — or was reflected from it, for 
that shining, expectant look seemed rather an 
inner radiance than an outside thing. 

Page held her breath, waiting for — she 
knew not what. Presently she heard a sound 
that seemed the very voice of the sun-soaked, 
hemlock-scented dell. It did not seem as if 
Jimps spoke; it was rather as if the notes 
came of themselves, as if he were the spirit of 
the wild, beautiful place. 

Jimps paused. 

There was an answering note, high-pitched 
and chirping. Down the rocky, wooded hill- 
side came a chipmunk whose comical cheek- 
pouches were stuffed with berries and seeds. 
It came down the rocks with little hesitant 
runs and pauses; stopped at the edge of the 
dell and sat there, with its tail undulating and 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


79 


its bright eyes sparkling. Presently, with a 
rapid, throaty chuck! chuck! it scurried to the 
stump, cocked its head on one side, and looked 
up at Jimps. 

Just then a slim gray body hurled itself from 
a chestnut-tree and alighted on the boy’s arm. 
It was a gray squirrel, whose mate followed 
more sedately across the glade, with two baby 
squirrels. They clambered up the stump, and 
Jimps lifted the young ones to his shoulder. 
The mother ran up his leg and cuddled against 
his neck. 

Two rusty-red squirrels, about the size of 
the baby grays, came scurrying down a hem- 
lock near Page. They were impudent, voluble 
fellows, those “mountain boomers.” They 
stopped midway down the tree, to sputter and 
bark and scold at Page. Then they cocked their 
heads to listen to the coaxing call, and answered 
it with musical churring notes, a real woodland 
song. 

Down the rocky hillside came a rust-colored 
fox-squirrel nearly twice as large as the full- 
grown gray squirrels. It moved slowly, with 
an awkward waddle very unlike the agile grace 


80 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


of its smaller cousins, and stopped at the foot 
of the stump. 

An appealing chirping sound, like a young 
bird’s call to its mother, threaded its way 
through Jimps’s (melody. There came in re- 
sponse the peenk! peenk! of downy wood- 
peckers, the sharp tsip! tsip! of juncos, the 
musical tcheer! of goldfinches, the soft coo of 
mourning-doves. They fluttered to near-by 
branches, and two or three of the boldest 
alighted on Jimps’s outstretched hands. 

He stood among his furred and feathered 
friends, unmindful of Page and forgetful of 
himself. He swayed lightly to and fro on the 
moss-covered stump, as if the breeze that was 
waving the hemlocks were having its will with 
him. His notes entwined with and disen- 
tangled from those of the birds. 

And then there came a flutelike note — 
sweet, sad, happy, wistful — pure and clear as 
if it came from the opened gates of heaven; it 
was the song of the wood-thrush at a little dis- 
tance, repeated and echoed by the boy. 

Tears were dripping down Page’s cheeks. 
Her heart ached with exquisite joy and sorrow. 



Page 


sat there, 


watching 


him 


Mr 











WHISTLING JIMPS 


81 


She felt a new and dear nearness to every- 
thing — sunshine, grass, trees, birds, beasts, 
every little leaf and chirping insect; she was 
neighbor and kin to them all. But Jimps — 
ah! Jimps was more than neighbor and kin; 
he was a part of the wild, beautiful woodland ; 
his voice was its very soul and spirit. How 
wonderful, and how natural! 

She gazed at him, standing there on tiptoe 
as if poised for flight with the wood-thrush. 
And then, with a start, she gazed beyond him 
at a huge brown head thrust through the chest- 
nut foliage. A body followed leisurely — a 
great beast towering up on slim legs and 
crowned with magnificent, wide-branching ant- 
lers. The creature glanced at Jimps and ac- 
cepted him as a part of the place, like the 
hemlocks and the squirrels. Browsing on the 
tender foliage, it advanced straight toward 
Page. She sprang up and shrieked. 

That shriek was like a stone falling into a 
clear pool and destroying its mirrored beauty ; 
like a cry of “Fire!” or “Murder!” breaking 
a happy dream; like a knife separating body 
and soul. As it was felt in the air — it seemed 


82 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


as if there were not time for it to be heard — 1 
Jimps answered it with a startled cry. 

For a second Page did not look at him. She 
saw that great beast crash through the bushes 
and speed away. She saw the birds whirr off, 
as if frightened by a hovering hawk; the gray 
squirrels run up the nearest hemlock, with 
their young ones in their mouths; the chip- 
munk dash off, uttering little churring whistles 
of alarm; the red squirrels, sputtering angrily, 
leap into tree-tops ; the fox-squirrel bound 
toward its den. 

And then, while her shriek and his scream 
were still quavering in the air, Page looked at 
Jimps. He started violently, as if he were 
about to dash away with the other wildwood 
creatures; then he gave a convulsive shudder 
and a dazed, helpless look came over his face. 
He shivered and seemed to shrink away, to 
collapse before her very eyes, like a soaring 
gay little balloon that is punctured and flutters 
to the ground, shriveled and ugly. No, not 
like that trivial mishap; this was a piteous 
catastrophe, the collapse of a living creature, 
and not of the body meredy, but of the spirit. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


83 


“0 Jimps!” exclaimed Page. 

He did not answer. His head dropped on 
his chest and his hands fell heavily to his sides. 
He gave a stumbling step and sank on the 
ground. 

Page was terrified. 

“Jimps! Jimps!” she sobbed. 4 4 What is 
the matter ? Oh ! what is the matter ? ’ ’ 

She dropped down beside him and put her 
hand on his arm. He gave a shiver, like a 
broken-winged bird knowing itself powerless 
to escape from its captor. 

4 4 Oh! what did I do?” cried Page. 

Jimps looked at her with an expressionless 
stare. Then he got slowly and clumsily to his 
feet, and, with his head hung down, stood fum- 
bling with his hands. 

44 I — oh! I didn’t mean to say anything,” 
Page cried in a broken voice. 4 4 But when I 
saw that huge beast coming — it was coming 
straight toward me — oh! I was so frightened. 
Then I heard that cry and knew I had 
screamed. ’ ’ 

44 I hadn’t ought to brung you here,” Jimps 
said dully. He took one or two uncertain 


84 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


steps. “They don't like folks. I been all 
this time a-learnin' 'em to friend with me." 
He did not seem to hear Page’s protestations 
of grief and contrition. “Let 's — let 's rest 
a while," he said. 

He dropped down like a clod, and in a min- 
ute he was breathing like one in a heavy 
stupor. Page stood gazing at him, with a 
troubled frown. 

Had she driven his woodland friends away 
forever! Had she destroyed evermore the 
sweet fellowship like that of the Golden Age? 
Or was it all a dream, a fancy, a thing that had 
never been and could never be? Surely this 
dirty, snoring boy could never create or share 
such marvels ! 

All at once she felt terribly frightened and 
alone, here with this sleeping vagabond in the 
wild, unfriendly woods. Suppose one of the 
Pooles should come? Or Rannell Gooch? She 
looked around with scared eyes, and gave a 
little cry when ta dead bough creaked in the 
wind. 

Jimps stirred. He opened his eyes, stretched 
his arms, and sighed. Then he stood up and 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


85 


said in his slow, sweet voice, a little lower and 
sadder than usual: “You done skeered ’em 
off. Come on away.” 

Without one glance around he left the magic 
dell, and Page followed him. 

“I am sorry, so sorry, I screamed and fright- 
ened the things,” she said penitently; “but I 
could n ’t help it. ’ ’ 

Jimps did not answer. 

Presently Page again broke the dull, un- 
friendly silence. “That huge beast terrified 
me. What was it, Jimps?” she asked timidly. 

“One o’ them buff does, I reckon.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no ! There are n ’t any buffaloes in 
these mountains,” she said. “Oh! I believe 
it was an elk. Father helped bring some elks 
here from the West a few years ago. He said 
they were like our Virginia deer, but larger 
and with huge antlers. That ’s what it was — 
an elk. Don ’t you reckon it was ? ’ ’ 

“Maybe so,” Jimps said in a flat, uninter- 
ested tone. 

Instead of turning toward Butterfly Flat, he 
went slowly up-stream. 

“Where are you going?” Page asked pres- 


86 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


ently. “I ought to be getting back to Squir- 
rel Spring to the others.’ ’ 

“I ’m goin’ short-cut way.” 

He plodded along without raising his eyes, 
and for several minutes Page followed him in 
silence. Then they came to a huddle of broken 
rocks. A little stream was trickling down the 
hollow, and Page, following its course with 
her eyes, saw through the bushes an open space 
on the mountain-side. There was a large cov- 
ered iron kettle, with a pipe running from it 
to a barrel near by. 

‘ ‘Isn’t that queer!” she exclaimed. 
“ There ’s a big pot over there by that shelv- 
ing rock. What are people doing, cooking out 
here, do you suppose?” 

Jimps looked up quickly, sprang back, and 
caught her by the wrist to draw her away. 

But it was too late. The rhododendron- 
bushes above them parted and disclosed a 
mountaineer. 

“Halt thar!” he said, looking along the bar- 
rel of his gun at the two intruders. 


CHAPTER V 


P AGE gave a shrill scream. 

The man’s finger was on the gun-trigger. 
He spoke quickly in a harsh undertone. 
“Shet yore mouth. Ef you yell agin, I 11 
blow yore brains out.” 

Terrified into silence, Page stood staring 
at the desperado. He was a tall, thin, wiry 
old man, with sand-colored face and hair and 
with pale-blue eyes — merciless eyes that as- 
sured Page he would not hesitate to carry 
out his threat. 

Jimps, after one quick glance at the moun- 
tain-side, had abruptly turned his face away. 
‘ 4 What you want?” he asked in a low, cautious 
voice. 

The man replied with another question : 
“What you doin' here?” 

“Jest goin’ up Failin' Water,” Jimps said. 
“We was down-stream. I was goin' to show 
her” — he jerked his head toward Page — “the 
87 


88 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


short-cut ’long Laurel Run to whar her folks 
is in the woods. We was sort o’ hurryin’ to 
git back ’fore they got uneasy an’ started after 
her.” 

This seemingly careless speech produced an 
effect. A younger man, a heavy-set, red-faced 
fellow with a gun in his hand, came out of the 
bushes. 

“Let ’em go on, Pappy,” he said. “Make 
’em sw’ar not to tell what they ’ve seen an’ 
let ’em go on. We don’t want a gang o’ them 
hotel fools traipsin’ here.” 

“Don’t let us rush, don’t let us rush,” 
drawled the older man. “We git on quicker 
takin’ things slow.” He had not moved his 
eyes from Jimps and Page while he spoke to his 
companion, and now he asked sharply, “Do 
yore folks know which-a-way you come?” 

“Yes,” answered Jimps. 

But in the same breath with that “Yes” 
Page was saying: “No; oh, no! They don’t 
know where I am. ’ ’ 

The doubt on the old man’s face deepened into 
suspicion. “ ‘Naw’ an’ 4 Yes’! One o’ you ’s 
lyin’, an’ ” — he looked at Jimps and then at 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


39 


Page — “ ’t ain’t the gal. You keep a shet 
mouth, boy, till I .ax you to speak. What you 
doin’ here?” he demanded of Page. 

“Why — why — nothing,” she stammered. 

“What you come this way for?” 

“We were just out walking.” 

“Walkin’ whar? Whar was you goin’?” 

“Just taking a walk to — to see pretty things 
along the stream. I was going back to Squir- 
rel Spring.” 

“She ’s lyin’, too,” the old man said in a 
slightly lowered voice, turning aside to con- 
sult with his companion, but keeping his eyes 
and his gun on the intruders. 

“Cert’n’y she is,” agreed the younger man. 

To them walking meant necessarily a desti- 
nation and an errand ; it seemed incredible that 
any one should walk miles through the woods 
merely for the pleasure of it. 

The younger man went on: “Them reve- 
nues done got mighty crafty, Pap. I reckon 
they sent this gal out to git evidence, an’ 
they ’re aimin’ to take us — jest as we ’re ready 
to move our still.” 

“They ain’t goin’ to git me. The gal say — 


90 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


an’ she looks like it ’s so — the folks don’t know 
whar she is. We ’ll fix the cubs so they won’t 
tote no news.” He fingered his gun and 
glanced at the wilderness of rocks where a 
body could be flung and lie concealed — until 
hovering buzzards guided the searchers. 

The younger man demurred: “Na*w, Pap; 
that won’t do. A killin’ makes too big a search. 
Folks would hunt the mountains for this gal, an’ 
they ’d cross the line an’ comb West Virginia 
to find us. I don’t want to be mixed up in no 
useless killin’s.” 

“I reckon you ’re right, Sam — ” 

‘ 4 Don’t be callin’ names,” the other man in- 
terjected sharply. 

“It do seem to hurt a young fellow’s 
recommendations nowadays to do a killin’. I 
reckon you ’re right. But what are we goin’ to 
do with them brats?” 

“S’pose they sw’ar” — began Sam, turning 
toward Page and Jimps. 

“We will ; oh, we will ! We ’ll promise never, 
never to tell about seeing you, ’ ’ Page exclaimed 
eagerly. 

The old man laughed harshly. “Shucks! 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


91 


What ’s thar word worth? Ain’t they told 
lies, both on ’em, with thar first breath? 
Naw, we can’t let ’em go. Ef we don’t shoot 
’em — ” 

The man called “Sam” said something in an 
undertone. Even Jimps’s alert ears could catch 
only occasional words — “hollow,” “hour,” 
“fasten.” The man ended, raising his voice 
a little: “An’ it ’ll be a time ’fore folks find 
’em thar. By then we won’t be hereabouts. 
Bill’s got the wheel ’most fixed, an’ we c^n 
take our mountain-dew ’cross the line to-night. ’ ’ 

“We-ell.” The old man agreed reluctantly. 
“But it ’s a heap more trouble.” 

“It ’s the best way. The good old days is 
gone when it was safe to shoot anybody that 
bothered you,” said Sam. Here a sudden 
thought came to him and made him pause. 
“That boy — turnin’ ’way like he wanted to 
hide — seems like I ’ve seen him somewhar. Do 
you know him?” 

The old man shook his head. “I don’t know 
folks hereabouts. That ’s huccome I moved to 
this neighborhood. Maybe Bill knows him.” 

The young fellow laughed gruffly. “Bill 


92 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


knows too many folks hereabouts, an’ they 
know him— the biggest old vilyan unhung! 
That ’s why he keeps tinkerin’ with the wagon 
an’ leaves this part o’ the job to us.” 

i ‘What diff’rence do it make who the boy 
ist” the old man asked impatiently. 

“I jest want to know ef he knows me.” 

“I b’lieve I ’ve seen you,” said Jimps, look- 
ing at the man as if trying to recall something. 
“Ain’t you Sam Woods, that come on Failin’ 
Water last year with a lumber camp?” 

“That ’s who I am; but don’t you tell on 
me,” the man said, with a relieved laugh. 
“You stay here, Pap, an’ keep ’em covered 
with that good old gun o’ your ’n whiles I speak 
to Bill. Then we ’ll go an’ fix the little devils. 
By then we git back, Bill ’ll have the wagon 
ready, an’ we ’ll load so ’s to move out at 
dark.” 

He turned back to the thicket, where the fig- 
ure of a man was moving about. Page, gaz- 
ing through the foliage, caught a glimpse of a 
face that made her shudder — it was so sullen 
and fierce. The features were lost in the tan- 
gled beard and long, grizzled hair. From under 


WHISTLING JIMPS 93 

dark, shaggy brows gleaimed evil, malicious, 
little reddish eyes. 

“O-oh! Jimps!” gasped Page. “Look at 
that awful man!” 

But Jimps did not move. After one sharp 
glance into the thicket when they were held up, 
he had kept his back to fhe still. 

After a muttered conversation with the man 
in the thicket, the fellow whom Jimps called 
Sam Woods came back. 

“I ’ll take the lead,” he said. “I been thar 
an ’ 1 know the way . 9 9 

“All right,” said the old man. “The gal 
c ’n come next an ’ then the boy. I ’ll be behind 
with old squirrel-barker.” He smiled and 
patted his gun. 

They left the path beside the stream and 
followed a steep, rough trail up ’Way-High 
Mountain. Page went stumbling along, so 
miserable and frightened that she took no heed 
of her steps. Time and again she slipped and 
almost fell. Were these awful men driving 
her and Jimps to some more remote place to 
murder them? Perhaps that old villain was 
even now taking aim, was going to shoot. She 


94 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


cowered, and then glanced back with terrified, 
questioning eyes. 

The old man had his gun at the ready, but he 
was paying no attention to her, except to hurl 
an oath when she delayed him by stumbling. 
He was watching Jimps closely. 

“Don’t you break that limb,” he said sharply 
as the boy caught a chestnut bough. “You 
broke one back thar. Don’t you do that ag’in. ” 

“Keep back yore shirt-sleeve from tearin’ 
on them locusts,” he ordered a minute later. 

Presently the trail led along the top of a 
rock that sloped steeply down for fifty or 
sixty feet and ended in a thicket of locusts. 

The old man uttered a fierce oath and thrust 
the muzzle of his gun against Jimps ’s head. 
“Ef you roll down that rock, I ’ll shoot you 
’fore you hit the bottom — an’ the gal too.” 

“How you know what I was thinkin’?’’ 
blurted the boy. 

Page was terrified, not only by the man’s 
threat, but by the thought of being left alone 
with these desperate men. 

“0 Jimps!” she cried imploringly. “Don’t 
leave me; oh, don’t!” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


95 


“Look whar you goin’, gal, ’ ’ the old man 
commanded fiercely as she slipped on a loose 
stone. “Stop thar a minute, Sam, an* harken 
to me. ’T won ’t do to shet the two o ’ them up 
together, like you was plannin’. This boy’s 
slyer ’n a old red fox. He ’d git out any crack 
whar smoke could go. You wait a minute, an’ 
I ’ll fix him an’ leave him here.” 

“We ain’t got no rope to tie him,” objected 
Sam, “or no ax to cut a hick’ry an’ git withes.” 

“I don’t need none. I ’m goin’ to death-lock 
him.” 

“Death-lock him?” 

“Yes. It ’s a Injun trick,” explained the 
old man. “My gran ’pappy showed it to me. 
He seen it when he was a boy, in the corpse 
bones that Injuns left.” 

“What!” exclaimed Sam. 

“Yes, suh! The Shawnees come on a settle- 
ment nigh whar he lived, an’ massa creed some 
folks, an’ carried off some, an’ left some death- 
locked. Gran ’pappy’s folks didn’t know 
’bout it till next spring; thar wa’n’t much 
passin’ twixen settlements in winter. They 
found the folks thar by the trees — thar bones, 


96 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


for the buzzards done picked off the meat — 
whar the Injuns put ’em. Uh, you don’t git 
away from a death-look! You stand here, 
Sam, with yore gun ready, an’ ef the brats 
offer to move, blow out thar brains. ’ ’ 

He laid down his gun. Then he caught 
Jimps in a grip of steel and pushed him against 
a sapling a little removed from other trees. 
Holding Jimps ’s shoulder with one hand, he 
bent down and, with a quick movement, pulled 
the boy’s feet behind the tree and twisted one 
ankle under the other. Then he pushed Jimps 
to a sitting posture. 

“Won’t he wiggle himself loose or pull out 
with his hands?” asked Sam. 

“ ’T ain’t no way he c’n histe himself, squat- 
tin’ thar cross-legged with his feet locked be- 
hinst that tree; his hands ain’t no use to him,” 
the old man answered, with a toothless grin of 
satisfaction. “Go on with the gal. The boy ’ll 
stay thar till judgment-day ef we don’t turn 
him loose.” 

“Hadn ’t you better gag him?” asked Sam. 

“Gag him? What fur? Bill says thar ain’t 
been a track but his’n on this mountain for a 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


97 


dozen year. We ’ll be back in a hour or so. 
Let the cub yell his heart out. It ’ll be sweet 
music to the buzzards.” He gave an evil 
laugh. “Git on, you gal!” 

“0 Jimps! Jimps! — Don’t leave him there. 
It ’s all my fault. I asked him to come with me. 
Oh, do let him loose!” sobbed Page. “Plea-se, 
please,” she implored. 

“You shet up; an’ go on peart, or I ’ll death- 
lock you to the next tree,” said the old man,, 
prodding her shoulder with the .muzzle of his 
gun. 

“ ’T ain’t no use to cry,” said Jimps; “an’ 
’t ain’t no use to beg them devils. You jest 
worsenin’ things. Go on an’ leave me be.” 

His face was drawn with pain and was as pale 
as death, except for the blood trickling from 
his lips; he was biting them to keep back the 
groans to which he would not give way in the 
presence of his tormentors. 

“0 Jimps ! Jimps !” Page cried, bursting into 
a desperate passion of tears. 

“You git on,” said the old man, “or I ’ll — ” 
He turned to his companion. ‘ 4 ’T ain ’t no 
sense in wastin’ all this time with her.” 


98 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Sam shook his head. “We can’t go no- 
whar till Bill fixes that wagon,” he said. “I 
nuver did like killin' gala. An' it 's safeter 
to have her whar they '11 hunt for her a long 
time. But, gal, you better not worry us too 
much,” he said with ominous emphasis. “You 
better go on.” 

And Page went on: went on up the steep, 
rough trail, until she- was so weary and spent 
that it seemed as if every panting breath, 
every faltering step, must be her last; went 
on along the rocky ridge of 'Way-High Moun- 
tain ; went on down the rugged, lonely western 
slope, following a faint path through locust 
thickets, across rocks, through chestnut woods ; 
went on till they came to Rooky Hollow and 
approached a cabin. 

There was something peculiarly forlorn and 
gloomy and forbidding about the place. The 
clearing, overgrown with weeds, was without 
cultivated grain or vegetable or flower. The 
log cabin looked like a prison pen or the 
stronghold of robbers. It was small, and as 
securely built as a block-house erected by set- 
tlers in the Indian-infested wilderness. At 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


99 


one end there was a rough rock chimney; on 
one side there were a stoutly shuttered window 
and a heavy door. The door was fastened by 
a padlock caught in the links of a chain passed 
through staples in the door and the door-frame. 

4 4 We ought to took that right-hand path,” 
said Sam. “We was to go to the upper cabin; 
that ’s what Bill said. It ’s empty. He said 
for us to fasten ’em in thar. But that ’s a 
good mile up the hollow, an’ I don’t see no 
use in wastin’ time — ” 

i ‘ Like we ’ve been a-wastin ’ it, ” the old man 
interrupted grimly. 

“Thar ain’t nobody here c’n let her out,” 
went on Sam. “Bill c’n do what he chooses 
with her when he gits home.” 

“The door ’s locked,” said the old man. 

“I know whar the key is,” replied Sam. 

He went around the corner, returned with a 
key, and unlocked and opened the door of the 
cabin. 

“Git in!” the old man said to Page. 

“Oh, don’t put me there! Don’t put me in 
that awful place!” she exclaimed, shrinking 
back from the dungeon-like hole. 


100 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


The old man caught her roughly by the 
shoulders and thrust her over the threshold. 
He kept his grip on her while he peered 
around. 

‘ i That shutter ain’t jail-tight,” he said. 
“We ’d better tie her hands. But what with? 
You can’t see a thing in this midnight hole 
Here! This ’ll do.” 

He jerked Page’s handkerchief out of her 
blouse pocket, drew her arms behind her, and 
fastened her wrists together. Then again he 
peered about. The light from the open door 
shone on a string of red peppers hanging on a 
wooden peg on the wall. 

“Thar’s a stout peg,” he said. “This’ll fix 
her.” 

He unfastened Page ’s belt, wrapped it around 
her manacled arms, and then buckled it again 
and threw the loop over the forked peg. 

While he was doing this he gave his compan- 
ion a contemptuous side-glance. “She ’ll stay 
here till Bill comes,” he said, “and he ’ll do 
what he chooses. He ain’t no mush-hearted 
baby, Bill ain’t. He’s a cut-throatin’ old gor- 
illa, a rip-roarin’ hell-hound, he is.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 101 

“You *re a hell-hound yoreself,” grumbled 
Sam. 

i ‘ Me ! Pma lamb to Bill ; I am that. Come 
on. Let ’s git back to our job with that moun- 
tain-dew. ’ 9 

1 ‘ Don ’t leave me here ! 9 9 Page pleaded. ‘ 1 Oh, 
let me loose! I won’t tell on you. I’ll do 
anything you say. My father ’ll pay you all 
the money he has. Please, please let me out ! ’ ’ 

“Uh, Bill will settle with you,” said the old 
man, turning away. “He ain’t af eared. 
He ’s cheated the hangman onct a ’ready.” 

He went out. The door slammed. The 
chain rattled. The key screeched and grated 
as it turned in the rusty lock. 

“Oh, let me out! let me out! Db let me 
out!” Page implored. 

They would — they must — open the defer and 
release her! They could not leave her in this 
black, suffocating, evil place. It was too cruel, 
too horrible. 

“Shoot me — let me die in the sunshine — not 
— not smother — stifle — here,” she gasped. 

She held her breath to listen for an answer. 
Waiting with her heart in her ears, she heard 


102 WHISTLING JIMPS 

only retreating footsteps and harsh voices dy- 
ing away in the distance. 

Then she went wild with terror. She 
screamed at the top of her voice, pursuing her 
jailers with commands, reproaches, threats, 
pleas, that broke into frantic cries of rage, pain, 
fright, despair. She beat her head against the 
wall. She strained against her bonds until 
they cut into her wrists. She sobbed prayers. 
And, spent at last with the vehemence of her 
emotions, she stood still, too dazed and too 
weak to hold herself up, hanging limply on her 
bonds. 

Dimly and by degrees, she made out one de- 
tail after another of her prison. It was a 
small square room. The walls were of logs 
with the bark left on them, and the cracks were 
closely chinked and daubed. A few rough 
boards were laid across the joists of the cabin, 
and a ladder in one corner led up to this loft. 
Where the timbers were cut out for the rude 
stairway, Page saw log rafters and a board 
roof. 

The furniture of the cabin was of the sim- 
plest — a bed covered with a ragged patchwork 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


103 


quilt; two chairs or stools made of hewn logs 
with sticks for legs; a table of the same rude 
construction, propped against the wall be- 
tween the fireplace and the window. 

These things Page made out faintly and with 
effort. The room was very dark. A little 
light dribbled down the chimney and lay in a 
dull patch on the ashes in the rough stone fire- 
place ; one sunbeam came through a small knot- 
hole in the window-shutter and danced on the 
floor; a streak of light crept through a crevice 
under the door. These rays seemed only to 
intensify the murky darkness, w T hich had a 
peculiarly loathsome quality, as if it were the 
embodiment of the cabin’s squalor and foul- 
ness. 

Penned in that place, Page was to await the 
coming of the man they called ‘ 4 Bill.” And 
the merciless old man who wanted to shoot her, 
and who death-locked Jimps, had said he was a 
lamb compared to Bill; Bill was a “hell- 
hound, ’ ’ “ a cut-throating gorilla . 9 9 A gorilla ! 
There flashed before her mind’s eye the wild, 
fierce face she had glimpsed at the still, the 
malevolent eyes gleaming from bushy, grizzled 


104 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


hair. That — that was Bill. Oh, no doubt of 
it! And a man like that would do — what evil 
thing would he not do? 

The sunbeam, full of dancing golden motes, 
flickering through the knot-hole, caught her 
eyes and reminded her of Jimps. She had a 
swift vision of him as he stood tiptoe, with 
radiant face, rivaling with his sweet, clear note 
the melody of the wood-thrush; and then she 
saw him cruelly confined, with his face pale 
and distorted with agony and — 

Suddenly there was a sharp, unearthly, hor- 
rible cry that seemed to come from all direc- 
tions at once and to fill the room: “Ee — ii — ii!” 

Page’s heart gave a great leap and then 
stood still. What was that awful noise? 
Where did it come from? She stood rigid, 
holding her breath, her face drenched with the 
cold sweat of deathly terror — listening and 
listening. 

But now she heard only the outdoor move- 
ments, the rustlings and chirpings and twitter- 
ings of the summer day. Yes! There was 
another sound : a little faint noise quite unlike 
and distinct from wind and insects and birds. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


105 


And it did not come from without. It was 
inside the cabin. She heard it again — a little 
rustling sound, like the slow, cautious move- 
ment of a living thing. It came from under 
the table, where there was a pile of dry grass 
and leaves and some rags. 

Page gazed fearfully into the murky corner. 
The rubbish stirred — or perhaps her eyes had 
deceived her. No! She saw a slight but un- 
mistakable movement. And now she heard not 
only that faint rustling but another sound — a 
subdued, irregular breathing. There was 
something alive, something that was watching 
her stealthily and intently. 

Not a dog; no dog uttered that terrible cry. 
It was some wild creature — this place was re- 
mote and desolate enough for any beast to 
make it his lair — crouching there ready to leap. 

Sick with terror, the cold sweat dripping 
from her face, she averted her head and shut 
her eyes. Poor thing! Fastened as she was, 
she could make no other self -protecting move- 
ment. 

Several slow and dreadful minutes passed. 
Anything, anything would be better than this 


106 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


awful suspense ! She turned her head, opened 
her eyes, and gazed under the table. 

At first she saw nothing but the pile of rub- 
bish. Then it stirred. It rustled. There 
was a slow, hesitating movement. And then 
Page saw — she saw a face shining out from 
the gloom. Yes, shining! The beautiful, 
vague little face was so pale that it seemed to 
glow in the darkness with almost unearthly 
radiance. There were great, luminous eyes 
and waving pale-gold hair — or was it an aure- 
ole and the face itself a vision? Was it — 
could it be — real, a creature of flesh and 
blood? 

“What — who are you?” faltered Page. 

The face dropped down in the rubbish, and 
there was a scared, moaning cry. 

“Oh! it is real — a child, poor little thing! 
I did n’t mean to frighten you,” said Page. 
“Come out here and let me see you. What is 
your name ? Who shut you up here, and 
why?” 

The child did not look up. It gave a low cry 
that reminded Page of the blood-curdling yell 
she had heard. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


107 


i ‘ Oh! that awful noise! It scared you too, 
did n ’t it ! ’ ’ she said, shuddering. 4 6 Dear, don ’t 
be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. I could n’t 
if I wanted to. I ’m tied ; I ’m tied fast. Come 
here and let ’s see — ” 

She called and coaxed and pleaded, but the 
child would not budge from under the table, 
nor even raise its face from the rubbish-pile. 
Not until long after she gave up her efforts to 
make friends did it move again. Then it fixed 
its eyes upon Page with a wide, vacant stare, 
and after a while it crept from under the table. 

Page saw now that it was a little fellow, 
painfully thin and pale, clad in a ragged blue 
cotton shirt. With slow, staggering move- 
ments and sidelong glances at her, the child 
went to an old bag in the middle of the room. 
He must have been sitting there and been 
frightened away by the coming of the men with 
Page, for there were his toys. Toys ! He had 
two or three rough limestone crystals that he 
turned about so as to catch the faint fight, and 
then pounded on the floor and beat together, 
laughing at the noise they made like a baby 
with a rattle. 


108 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


After a while he stopped playing, and sat 
rocking himself back and forth, holding his 
head with both hands. 

“Me hurt! hurt!” he whimpered over and 
over. 

“What hurts, poor dear?” asked Page. 
“Is your head aching? Is — ” 

If she had screamed or struck at him, the 
child could not have scuttled away more 
quickly. He dug himself in the rubbish under 
the table, and the only signs that he heard 
Page’s coaxing calls were his moans and the 
rustling of the grass and leaves under his 
quivering body. In trying to comfort him she 
forgot her own woes. It was heartbreaking 
to see him — a little, little child ! — crouching 
there, shivering, so shy and frightened. 

“You poor little dear! Don’t be afraid of 
me. Oh, I ’m so sorry! If just I could get 
there and take you in my arms. Oh! won’t 
you stop being scared, and look up and speak 
to me?” 

At last she gave up. And then it was a 
long time before the child, muttering to him- 
self, gained courage to come out. Glancing 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


109 


timidly and furtively at Page and keeping as 
far as possible from her, he sidled to the door. 
He ran his little thin finger up and down, and 
down and up, along the chink of light under the 
door; then he clutched at the patch of sun- 
shine that came through the knot-hole in the 
shutter. 

Page would not persecute him by speaking 
to him again. And presently she forgot him 
in fearful thoughts about Jimps and herself. 
Poor, poor Jimps! She recalled the old man’s 
tale, and lived it over for the boy. How the 
buzzards would sit in the trees and circle in 
the air, flapping their loathsome wings, wait- 
ing — waiting. Perhaps before life was gone, 
while he was still striving, with feeble cries 
and motions of his spent, tortured body, to 
ward off the carrion fowls, they, growing im- 
patient, would swoop down and — and — She 
sickened at the scene her imagination conjured 
up, and closed her eyes as if to shut out a 
horrible reality. 

And what would Bill — gorilla, cut-throat, hell- 
hound — do to her? Would he shoot her? 
Or would quick death be too merciful? Would 


110 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


he shut her in that 4 ‘ other cabin” and leave 
her there to die? Would he death-lock her, or 
torture her in some other fiendish fashion? — 
that evil, awful man who was coming — was 
perhaps on his way — might arrive this minute, 
or the next. 

She listened, terrified, to every sound. A 
bough snapped — she thought it was his foot- 
step. Insects hummed, leaves rustled — she 
fancied them his approaching voice. It seemed 
incredible, as those slow and awful hours 
passed, incredible and impossible that the 
world outside was full of the beauty of a sunlit 
summer day, the rustling of breeze-stirred 
trees, the songs of birds, the buzz and murmur 
and chirp of happy insects. 

The afternoon was waning now. The light 
no longer came dancing through the knot-hole. 
The sun had dropped behind the mountain, 
bringing an early twilight to the hollow and a 
deeper gloom to the dreary hovel. The child, 
huddled down on the old bag, had fallen asleep. 
His fair face and golden hair made a faint 
radiance in the darkness. 

All Page’s woes — the pain of her cramped 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


111 


body, her terror, despair, harrowing suspense, 
torturing fancies — swept into a great wave of 
misery. Tears streamed down her cheeks. 
She wailed aloud. She wept with long, quiver- 
ing sobs, as if her body and heart would dissolve 
in woe. 

She did not notice the child, did not see that 
he had awakened and started to his feet. He 
was trembling violently, but he did not run to 
shelter. He stood there, quivering, with his 
staring eyes fixed on Page. Then, for the 
first time, he spoke: “Brat be good. Brat be 
good . 9 ’ He repeated the promise over and over. 

Page, sobbing as if her heart would break, 
did not hear his soft, halting speech. 

He stood still a while longer, gazing at her. 
Then he crept toward her. Presently she felt 
a little uncertain touch on her elbow. A 
faltering voice said, “Be good, girl! be good!” 

She caught her breath on a sob, und looked 
through her tears down on the pale, lovely 
little face, quivering with her misery as if it 
were his own. 

“0 you darling!” she said. 

When she spoke, the child went again to 


112 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


his covert under the table. While she was 
trying to get him to come back to her, she 
heard — What was that noise outside? Was 
it a crackling twig, a rustling bough, an in- 
sect's chirping? — the sounds that had startled 
her so often before? Ah, no! She heard now 
stealthy footsteps and hushed voices; and 
caught a few words, low cautious words: “I 'll 
go in and get her." 

Ah ! Bill — the gorilla, the hell-hound, the cut- 
throat, the hangman's cheat — Bill had cornel 


CHAPTER VI 


FTER Page ran into the woods to meet 



fi Jimps Farlan, Harrison went back to 
Squirrel Spring. He and the Harvie boys 
cleaned it out, walled it in, and roofed it with 
a large, flat stone; they deepened the channel 
and made a little pool for a watering-place 
for cattle. Then they dropped down in the 
shade to wait for Mrs. Harvie and the girls. 

Harrison sat facing the hillside down which 
Page had gone. If only she would come trip- 
ping along, bringing a tale about a wonderful 
butterfly or bird or flower, one of the pretty 
trifles that were always exciting her enthusi- 
asm — and herself back safe! He started up 
eagerly when he heard laughing voices. Per- 
haps Page had joined the other girls and they 
were all returning together. But she was not 
with Mrs. Harvie and Anne Lewis and Elinor 
Lane and Mary Watkins, who came straggling 
along with their hands full of plants. 


113 


114 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Did you think we were never coming back? 
And are you starving V 9 - called Mrs. Harvie. 
“We didn’t mean to stay so long. But we 
found such lovely flowers, and so many of 
them, and it was such slow work digging them 
up with the trowel.” 

“Especially this darling little swamp-azalea 
that we just had to have,” said Mary. “Will 
you look at my hands! There are blisters 
under the mud.” 

“Y'ou girls sit down and rest. We ’ll plant 
the flowers,” said Chris. “Just tell us where 
to put them.” 

“Don’t you want to wait till after lunch?” 
asked his mother. 

“Oh, no!” said Chris. “Let’s finish the 
job, and then have eats and naps.” 

“Grass-of-Parnassus likes a wet place. Put 
this in the stream just below the spring, Har- 
rison, and protect it with a rock, ’ ’ said Elinor. 

“And this jewel- weed — plant that near the 
stream, too,” said Mrs. Harvie. 

“Where shall we put this red lily?” asked 
Mary. “What do you think, Pagie? — Why, 
where is Page?” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


115 


“Yes, where is she?” asked Elinor. “The 
place seemed sort of forlorn, but I thought it 
was because the sun had gone under a cloud.” 

“Page — I left her here helping you boys. 
Where is she?” asked Mrs. Harvie. 

It was Christopher who answered: “Oht 
Page set us all to work on her mussy old job, 
and then she trotted off.” 

“A long, long time ago,” said Sandy. 

“She ought not to have wandered off alone,” 
said Mrs. Harvie “Think what happened the 
other day. Run and call her, Chris.” 

Christopher went in the direction that Page 
had taken, and they heard him hallooing: 
4 4 Page ! 0 Page ! Pa-a-age ! ’ ’ 

They had finished transplanting the flowers 
when he came back. 

“I don’t see or hear anything of her, 
Mother. If you ’ll give me a dozen sand- 
wiches — I ’m starving — I ’ll go and search her 
up.” 

“We ’ll eat our lunch — ‘ prayer and proven- 
der hinder no man’ — and then all you boys go 
and look for her,” said Mrs. Harvie. “Have 
you any idea where she went?” 


116 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“No, Mother, ,, answered Chris, not looking 
at Harrison, who had kept silent — troubled, but 
unwilling to betray Page’s secret. 

Sandy spoke: “Maybe Harrison knows. 
He went a little way with Page and was talk- 
ing to her.” 

Mrs. Harvie turned to Harrison with a ques- 
tion in her eyes. 

“I — I don’t know exactly where they were 
going, Mrs. Harvie.” 

“ ‘They’?” 

“I heard her say she was going along Fall- 
ing Water with — with Jimps Farlan.” 

“And you let Page wander off alone with 
that boy that ’s as wild and irresponsible as a 
squirrel or a fox!” 

“I ought to have — have stopped her. But 
she wanted to go. And she felt sure Jimps 
could take care of her, after his saving her 
from that wildcat.” 

“But, Harrison! That ’s no reason why 
she should go to-day, straying off with him, no 
one knows where. I am surprised at you — 
more surprised at you than at her. Page 
has a pell-mell way of going ahead on 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


117 


the impulse of the minute. But I thought you 
had better judgment. Mr. Ruffin told me ex- 
pressly that he asked you to watch out for her. 
And you let her go — ” 

“I am sorry, Mrs. Harvie. I am going to 
look for her right now.” 

Harrison looked so miserable that Chris, 
catching him by the arm, interposed: “Come, 
come, Mamsy dear! Don’t be rough on old 
Harson. If he tried to stop Page — May- 
be he did; I saw him talking to her, and from 
the way she tossed her chin I know he was 
arguing with her. But reasoning with Page 
when she ’s set on doing a thing — whew! it ’s 
like trying to stop a whirlwind with a fist- 
ful of thistledown. We ’ll hike along and 
find her. Which way shall we go, Harri- 
son!” 

“To Falling Water,” Harrison said. He 
did not know whether Page had gone up or 
down stream; she had merely said she was 
“going along Falling Water” and “look for 
her back when they saw her.” 

“Wait a minute. Let me give you some 
food,” said Mrs. Harvie. 


118 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


She opened the lunch-basket and filled the 
boys’ hands and pockets with sandwiches. 

“Now run along,” she said. “But don’t go 
very far or stay very long. The Sibolds prob- 
ably saw Page and can tell you which way 
she went. If you don’t find her soon, come 
back, and we ’ll go to the hotel and start out a 
search-party. If she ’s lost, that ’s the thing 
to do. We ’ll wait here for you. You know, 
she may come back two minutes after you are 
out of hearing.” 

“Perfectly furious with us for being uneasy 
about her. Silly thing! Aw! this is just like 
a girl — especially Page!” said Christopher. 

David laughed, but Harrison did not. He 
was frankly uneasy. 

“We ’ll find her. We ’ve got to find her,” 
he said. 

The three boys went together to Butterfly 
Flat. The Sibolds could give them no tidings 
of Page, so they divided forces: David and 
Christopher were to go to Crystal Falls, and 
Harrison said that he would explore a mile or 
two up-stream, then take a short-cut path 
up Laurel Run, and rejoin the party at Squirrel 
Spring. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 119 

He hurried along the trail that Page and 
Jimps had followed, stopping now and then to 
call his cousin and listen for an answer. He 
found signs, broken twigs and trampled ferns, 
that showed the trail had been traveled re- 
cently; but on the grassy or stony leaf-strewn 
path it was impossible to distinguish foot- 
prints. 

It was wild, rough country. On the left of 
Falling Water, the long, wooded slope of Gap 
Mountain ended at Butterfly Flat; below the 
flat rose the rugged heights of Deer Mountain, 
which were considered to be unscalable; only 
Jimps and Page knew the secret of the ascent 
to the “ Jewel-Box/ ’ On the right of the 
stream, Way-High Mountain rose in a pre- 
cipitous ridge between Falling Water and 
Rocky Run. To avoid its rocky spurs above 
the flat, Falling Water bent and twisted and 
curved, traveling three wild, rough miles to 
make a journey of less than an air-line mile. 

Harrison passed the rock-bound dell with- 
out dreaming it was there, and a little farther 
up the stream he stopped abruptly. 

A wisp of smoke was rising above the chest- 


120 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


nut-trees. He knew there was no clearing or 
cabin near the place. What, then, was the 
meaning of that smoke? Picnickers or camp- 
ers might be there, but more probably it 
was a still. Such a secluded spot on the 
stream was just the place a moonshiner would 
choose; and if it were a still, somewhere near 
it a keen-eyed mountaineer was probably on 
the lookout. 

What if Page had come — But no! Even 
if she and Jimps Farlan had roamed up- 
stream, Jimps would keep her away from this 
place. If a still were here, he probably knew 
about it; such tidings travel quickly, in mys- 
terious ways, in the lonely, remote mountains, 
as if the proverbial ‘ 4 little bird” did indeed 
carry the news. And, even if Jimps did not 
know about it, when he saw this smoke he would 
be on the alert and would lead Page away from 
the place. 

Probably they had not come up-stream, any- 
way; there was nothing here to attract them. 
Perhaps Page was already on her way to 
Squirrel Spring with David and Christopher, 
and he had better get back there as quickly as 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


121 


he could. But he could not cross the stream 
here where overhanging rocks barred the way. 
He looked around, and decided to climb the 
mountain-side, circle around the doubtful 
place, come back to the stream, and cross it 
some distance above the suspected still. 

He climbed cautiously up the bluff, keeping 
under the shelter of bushes. Presently he 
came to a rough trail. He followed it a little 
way, thinking perhaps it led up-stream. But 
it did not ; it climbed the mountain. He paused, 
undecided whether to retrace his steps and make 
the long elbow by Butterfly Flat, or to keep 
on scrambling along the mountain-side. 

It was a still summer afternoon, and noises 
traveled far. Harrison heard the creaking of 
a broken bough, the whirring flight of quails, 
the tinkling trills and whistles of a Carolina 
wren, the cawing of crows, the chirping and 
buzzing of insects, the ripple of the stream, 
the swishing of a pine-tree — the usual sounds 
of a peaceful, happy woodland. And yet, the 
place was neither happy nor peaceful. There 
was a disturbing, distressing note — a calling 
voice, so far off and faint that it was drowned 


122 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


by a bird’s note or a cricket’s chirp. It came 
again and again and again; and it troubled 
Harrison. 

“I imagine — oh! all sorts of foolish things, 
because I ’m worried about Page,” he said to 
himself. “That ’s just some one calling a 
dog. Well, sure thing this path doesn’t lead 
back to Falling Water; it crosses the moun- 
tain. I ’d better hike back to Butterfly Flat. 
It ’ll take less time than breaking a way up- 
stream. And Mrs. Harvie ’ll be expecting us 
back. ’ ’ 

He turned and started down the mountain. 

Now he no longer heard the calling voice; 
but he found himself listening for it. Instead 
of finding the silence a relief, he felt as if it 
were the despairing protest of some one he 
had deserted in dire need. It was — wasn’t 
it? — because he Vas troubled about Page that 
he took it that way, but — Well, he couldn’t 
stand it. He wheeled in his tracks. He 
would follow the path far enough to hear those 
cries more distinctly and to make out what 
they meant. It would not take long. There 
might really be some one in distress, some one 


WHISTLING JIMPS 123 

who had fallen and sprained an ankle or 
broken a leg. 

He hurried along the rough upward trail, 
and presently he heard the cries again. With 
every step he took they became more distinct 
and more piteous and urgent. There were 
sharp yelps for aid, and then inarticulate 
screams of pain and despair, as of a trapped 
wild creature. 

Presently Harrison heard some one thrash- 
ing about and clawing at stones and bushes. 
Then through the foliage he saw a boy crouch- 
ing beside a sapling, making desperate, agoniz- 
ing, vain efforts to get up. Why, this boy 
was Jimps Farlan, with whom Page had gone 
along Falling Water! Harrison sprang for- 
ward. 

‘ ‘Where ’s Page? Where is she?” he cried. 

i i Turn me loose. Them men took her up 
the mountain. Turn me loose, for God’s 
sake ! ’ ’ 

“Who did it? What men?” 

As Harrison questioned he was freeing 
Jimps, holding him up with the right hand and 
with the left releasing his twisted feet from 


124 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


the tree. The boy was so cramped and tortured 
that when he tried to stand up, he fell in a 
crumpled heap on the ground. 

“Where ’s Page?” Harrison repeated urg- 
ingly. 

“With them men.” Jimps sat up and, 
frowning with pain, began to rub his legs. 

“What ’s happened? Tell me quick.” 

“They caught us,” said Jimps. “She went 
in sight o’ the still. They was aimin’ to 
fasten us up somewhar. Then that old vilyan 
death-locked me, an ’ they took her on. ’ 9 

“On where? Where did they go with 
Page?” 

“Straight up this trail. Wait! I can’t go 
fast till I limber up,” called Jimps. 

Harrison, intent only on finding Page, hur- 
ried up the path without replying. Jimps fol- 
lowed. At first he limped along stiffly; but 
when his numb limbs regained their power he 
hurried on and overtook Harrison. 

“Who were they, the men with Page?” 
asked Harrison. 

“Boozer Sam Sawyer. An’ a old man — 
Boozer called him ‘Pappy.’ I reckon he was 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


125 


’Lijah Gooch. I heared he was moonshiniIl , 
on Fallin , Water, but I didn’t know it was 
hereabouts. I cert’n’y wa’n’t aimin’ to run 
on that still. But I — I was sort o’ dazed.” 

“You ought to have had more sense than to 
run a girl in on a still. Two men. Were they 
all?” 

“All that come in the open. Thar was — 
was a man at the still.” 

They went on for a while in silence. 

Then Jimps said: “Look-a-here ! Ef we 
keep ’long this path we ’re goin’ to meet 
Pappy an’ Boozer. They ’re aimin’ to git 
back an’ move thar still to-night.” 

“We ’ve got to watch for them, and hide in 
the bushes, ’ ’ said Harrison, keeping his course. 

“Um-h’m; ef we see ’em in time. They got 
mighty sharp eyes an’ guns,” said Jimps. 

“We ’ve got to take the risk. We must find 
Page quick as we can. ’ ’ 

“We won’t find her a-tall ef Pappy gits a 
bead on us with that old squirrel-barker gun 
o’ his’n,” answered Jimps. “I ’m goin’ 
’cross the mountain. It ’s nigher. This here 
trail snakes round to miss the clifft. I c’n hit 


126 WHISTLING JIMPS 

it on t’other side o’ the mountain an’ save 
time — an ’ my hide . 9 9 

i ‘You coward — thinking of yourself, your 
hide, instead of Page!” 

Without answering, Jimps turned to the 
left. 

In a minute or two Harrison paused. 

“You say it ’ll save time? it ’s nearer?” he 
asked. 

“ Crows fly this-a-way.” 

“How about the cliff? Can we get up it?” 
called Harrison. 

“I ’m going to. It ’s like climbin’ so many 
trees set atop each other. It ’s a hard pull — 
for a coward ! ’ ’ Jimps called back, with a 
mocking laugh. 

Harrison gritted his teeth and, turning from 
the path, followed Jimps. 

Ah, such a climb as it was ! Straight up the 
mountain-side, where probably no human foot 
had gone before. There were steep slopes of 
rotten shale that slid and crumbled; and if a 
climber fell he would never regain his footing, 
but would go crashing to the bottom of the 
cliff. There were tall rocks; and as one went 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


127 


upward, clinging to shrubs and roots and find- 
ing toeholds in crevices here and there, he 
knew that at any minute a sheer rock or an 
overhanging ledge might block the way. And 
then? What then? 

Time after time the boys came to what 
seemed the last wall of rock, and mounted it — 
only to reach a narrow ledge rimmed with 
shrubs and trees, beyond which rose another 
cliff fringed with stunted pines, promising 
again the summit that still eluded them. 

Harrison was a sturdy sportsman, and he 
climbed with stout muscles and a good heart. 
But long before he attained the top of that grim 
wall he had really reached the end of his physi- 
cal powers. Only the thought of Page’s need 
enabled him to go on the difficult, desperate 
way. 

But Jimps went upward, agile and un- 
wearied, far ahead. Now and then he climbed 
a scrubby oak and looked down at Harrison 
pulling up sheer rocks or scrambling over peril- 
ous shale. 

“ Why n’t you come on? You said you was 
in a hurry,” he called. 


128 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“I ’m climbin’ — like a man,” Harrison 
panted. “I ’m no — monkey — or — mountain 
bobcat.” 

Jimps laughed and sprang from the bending 
tree to the cliff-side, and sped upward. 

At last they came to the mountain-top, a 
stony ledge sparsely overgrown with stunted 
pines and scrubby oaks. They crossed the 
ridge and looked down into Rocky Hollow. In 
the narrow valley there were three or four 
widely separated clearings and cabins along- 
side a little stream. 

“The path ’s thar.” Jimps pointed to the 
right. “An’ that *s th<em comin , back. 
They ’ll rip an’ bile when they git to that 
tree — an’ me not thar!” 

Two figures, indistinctly visible through the 
trees, were moving across a rocky, unwooded 
expanse far below. 

“Where ’s Page! She ’s not with them,” 
Harrison said anxiously. 

“They ’re cornin’ the way from Bill Poole’s. 
I reckon maybe they left her thar,” said Jimps. 
“I ’m goin’ down the mountain and hit the 
path t’ other side of ’em.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


129 


They descended the bluff easily and quickly 
and, at a safe distance below the mountaineers, 
went back to the trail. They hurried along 
till they came near the clearing. Then Jimps 
paused. 

“We Ve got to go slow an’ keerful,” he 
said in a low voice. “Marthy Poole ’s as 
quick on the trigger as Bill.” 

Harrison pushed ahead. “I ’m going to 
see if Page is there,” he declared. 

Jimps gripped his arm. “You won’t be no 
use to her or yoreself with the top o’ yore head 
blowed off,” he said. “An’ sure thing, you 
ain’t goin’ to give Pooles a invite to shoot 
me. You keep a shet mouth an’ le’ me lead, 
or I ’m goin’ home.” 

“But I tell you—” 

“Take yore ruthers.” 

Harrison was eager to dash ahead. But it 
would not do to let Jimps, whose help might 
be sorely needed, go away. So, angrily and 
impatiently, he yielded. Jimps left the trail 
and skulked through the woods. He paused 
behind a thicket of greenbrier and blackberry- 
vines at the edge of the clearing. 


130 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Here on thar ain’t nothin’ to hide be- 
hind,” he said. “I ’m goin’ to fox ’long, 
pickin’ berries.” 

Keeping his face turned away from the 
cabin, he stepped into the clearing, followed 
by Harrison. While they seemed to be busy 
picking blackberries, they kept their eyes fixed 
on the cabin. They strolled along, as if aim- 
lessly, from one clump of berry-vines to an- 
other, but every move took them nearer the 
house. Jimps stopped at the corner between 
the window and the chimney. 

“Looks like Pooles is away,” he said in a 
cautious undertone. “But you dunno. Lis- 
ten good. An’ be ready to run ef a body 
comes out.” 

Harrison spoke in a low but less well modu- 
lated voice: “We ’ve got to find out if Page 
is inside. If she is — if I have to tear the 
cabin down with my hands, I ’ll go in and get 
her.” 

“Sh-sh!” whispered Jimps. “Keep still.” 

He gave a queer, sweet whistle. If the 
Pooles heard and noticed it, they would think 
it was a bird-note. But Page would know the 


WHISTLING JIMPS 131 

call, and she would know that it came from 
him. He put his head against the log wall and 
listened. He did not hear a sound. He whis- 
tled again, and then gave a purring call like 
that he had used to the wildcats. There was 
a gasp inside the cabin. 

“Who ’s that?” asked a voice that was 
hoarse with sobbing. 

“Anybody thar?” Jimps inquired. 

“Yes; there ’s — ” 

“Lawzee!” Jimps went around the corner 
of the cabin like a flash, and sped to the woods. 

Harrison stood his ground. 

“Page! Page!” he called, and held his 
breath to listen. 

“Harrison! Dear Harrison! Oh, it ’s you 
— you ! Thank God, it ’s you ! Oh, get me out 
before that awful man comes back! Do hurry 
and get me out ! ’ 9 

“Who ’s there inside?” 

“A child — a little boy. Oh, get me out!” 

“I will, I will,” promised Harrison. Then 
he called: “Jimps! You Jimps Farlan! 
Come and help get Page out. It ’s only a 
child there with her.” 


132 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Uh! jest that young un, that brat V* 

Without waiting for Jimps, Harrison began 
to jerk at the heavy oaken door. It was 
securely padlocked, and it would take him 
hours to force it open with his Scout knife, the 
only tool he had. He tried the shutter, but it 
was firmly fastened on the inside. He turned 
to consult Jimps. The boy was clambering 
like a squirrel up the projecting logs at the 
corner of the house. 

‘ * What monkey-shines are you up toV’ Har- 
rison demanded angrily. “Come down and 
help get Page out. ’ ’ 

Jimps paused and made an impish grimace. 
Crouched under the eaves of the cabin, he 
looked like a gargoyle representing a fantastic 
spirit of the mountains. Without a word, he 
crept along the logs and swung himself to the 
roof. He sat for an instant astride the roof- 
tree, grinning down at Harrison. Then he 
stepped on the top of the rough stone chimney, 
squatted on the edge, caught hold of the top- 
most rocks, and swung himself down. The 
last glimpse Harrison had of him was the wild 
grin that he carried as he went scuttling and 


WHISTLING JIMPS 133 

scrambling down the chimney, with arms 
spread and legs outstretched to retard his leap 
or fall — whichever it might be. 

Jimps alighted in the fireplace, and stood 
on the hearth, looking like a very sooty 
Brownie. Two screams greeted him, a strange 
little gurgling cry and a shriek from Page. 

“Oh! oh! Jimps !” she gasped. “It ’s — it 
is you!” Then she said soothingly: “Don’t 
be scared, you poor little dear. He won’t 
hurt you. — It ’s a child, a little child, shut up 
here,” she explained. 

Jimps stood still a minute, blinking and 
straining his eyes in the darkness. Then he 
went to the window, fumbled for the chain that 
held the shutter, unfastened it, and threw open 
the shutter. There was neither sash nor glass 
over the opening, and Harrison bounded into 
the room. 

“Harrison! Harrison! Thank God, you’ve 
found me!” exclaimed Page. 

“Page! dear Page!” 

“Come on out,” said Jimps. 

“I — I can’t,” Page gasped. “I ’m tied. 
Oh, please unfasten me! Quick, quick!” 


134 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Harrison unbuckled the belt and untied the 
handkerchief which had cruelly bruised and 
cut her wrists. 

“0 Page! you poor darling !” he said, 
putting his arm around her to steady her fal- 
tering steps as he led her to the window. 

Meanwhile Jimps was loo-king at the child, 
who had retreated under the table. He pulled 
aside the rubbish, and, holding the little fel- 
low by the shoulder, looked him over with 
curious eyes. 

“Huh, young un! I ain’t see you for a 
month o’ Sundays,” he remarked. “You 
grow backwards an’ git littler.” 

After a vain effort to wrest himself away, 
the child stood still, with his chin thrust out, 
his hands pressed to his brow, his vacant, dim- 
sighted blue eyes avoiding Jimps. What a 
pale, meager, scared, pitiful little creature he 
was! 

“Lawzee! You’re a rotten sight!” Jimps 
commented, with no more concern for the 
child’s weakness and terror than one wild- 
wood thing has for another. Then he knit his 
brows and looked puzzled. “It ’s funny,” he 


WHISTLING JIMPS 135 

said. 4 4 1 did n ’t mind you-all was anyways 
’like.” 

The child whimpered, and Jimps released 
him and gave him a little push with the toe of 
his bare foot. The child buried himself again 
in the rubbish, but Jimps again pulled it aside. 
The little fellow covered his eyes with his 
hands, to shut out the sight of the impish sooty 
face. Just then Harrison glanced around. 

4 4 Let that child alone, you spiteful scamp !” 
he said sharply. 

Jimps laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and 
turned to Page. 

4 4 We ’d better git out o’ here,” he said. 
4 4 Old Bill an’ Marthy ’ll come any minute.” 

4 4 That ’s so,” said Harrison. 4 4 Page dear, 
I ’ll go first. If you can climb on the window- 
sill, I ’ll lift you out. Jimps ’ll help you up, 
if your poor feet are too stiff to move. We 
must get away as quick as we can.” 

44 Yes, yes! Before Bill comes. Hurry, 
Harrison; oh, hurry!” cried Page, staggering 
toward the window. 

Harrison jumped out, reached up and caught 
her in his arms, and eased her to the ground. 


136 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Jimps stood in the window, poised to leap, and 
then sprang back into the room. 

“I ’ll chain the shutter an’ go up the chim- 
bly,” he said. “It ’ll set ’em guessin’ how* 
she got out.” 

“Help the child out first,” said Page. 

“Naw. We don’t bother with that,” said 
Jimps. 

“Oh, he ’s so little and miserable-looking! 
We must get him out,” cried Page. 

“We can’t, Page; we can’t take the Pooles’ 
child with us,” said Harrison. “Come on. 
We must hurry away before those men get 
here.” 

“But I can’t bear to leave him, shut up in 
the dark, alone, a little child like that,” said 
Page. 

“You found him here,” replied Jimps. 
“You got nothin’ to do with him.” 

“It won’t do the child any good for us to 
stay here till those men come back and shoot 
us,” said Harrison. 

“But, Harrison — ” pleaded Page. 

Jimps settled the matter by slamming and 
fastening the shutter. Then he scrambled up 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


137 


the chimney and sprang on the house-top. In- 
stead of climbing down the gable, he tripped 
along the roof. At the very edge, he made a 
leap, and, turning a somersault like a playful 
kitten, he landed on the ground. 

‘ ‘ Hurry !” he cried. “Git away from here. 
You follow that trail down Rocky Run to 
Failin’ Water. It ’s a nigh way to Butterfly 
Flat.” 

“Come, Page,” Harrison said, hurrying 
down the trail beside the stream. “Walk be- 
hind me.” 

“Come on, Jimps,” called Page. 

But Jimps shook his head, with an impish 
light in his eyes. 

“You go on,” he said. “I ’ll be ’long pres- 
en ’ly.” 

Page would have waited for him, but Har- 
rison caught her hand and drew her down the 
path. 

“Indeed, Page, you must not, must not stay 
here,” he said. 

And so they went down Rocky Hollow, leav- 
ing Jimps behind at the cabin. 


CHAPTER VII 



S fast as Page could go, she and Harrison 


went down Rocky Hollow and up Fall- 
ing Water, hurrying across the miles that lay 
between them and Butterfly Flat. They drew 
long breaths of relief when they came in sight 
of the peaceful, pleasant glade. Ah ! there 
was the Sibolds’ shanty, seeming so safe, so 
shut in an orderly, law-abiding world. Mr. 
Sibold was sitting on the porch, enjoying his 
pipe and the late afternoon sunshine. He was 
a stout, slouching old man, with a mild, weather- 
beaten face, a shock of yellow-gray hair, and a 
long, grizzled beard. 

Page ran up and caught his hands as if they 
were a life-buoy and she a drowning mariner. 

“Oh, Mr. Sibold! Mr. Sibold!” she cried. 
“Don’t let them get us!” 

“Hey, now! What ’s the matter?” inquired 
the old man. 

As soon as the drift of her story was ap- 


138 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


139 


parent, he got up and went indoors, beckoning 
the young folks to follow him into the back 
room, where his wife was busy preparing 
supper. 

“Not so loud, not so loud, my dear. I ain’t 
deef,” he said nervously. “Best not let them 
folks hear you, if any of ’em happen this way.” 

His soft blue eyes wandered from Page’s to 
Harrison’s face as, talking excitedly together, 
they told their story. 

Mrs. Sibold, a plumper, less weather-beaten, 
feminine copy of her husband, set her pots and 
pans out of scorching danger and put a com- 
forting arm around Page. 

“You pore child!” she said soothingly. 
“Wa’n’t it a pity you happened on that still? 
You pore, starved, tired little thing! You 
ain’t had a bite to eat since breakfast, have 
you? Well, now, supper is ready. I ’ll get 
out some doughnuts. Do you like huckleberry 
jam?” 

“I ’m not h-hungry,” said Page, her teeth 
chattering. 

“You ain’t cold?” asked Mrs. Sibold; “not 
this hot evening?” 


140 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


‘ ‘Yes. No. I ’m — I ’m cold and hot too,” 
Page answered with a quivering little laugh. 

“She ’s all in; she ? s had such an awful 
time,” Harrison said. “She does need food. 
Do give her something, Mrs. Sibold.” 

“Yes, Page; get yoreself food-full,” said 
Mr. Sibold. “A hearty meal is good -medicine. 
You eat and rest, and then I ’ll see you safe 
to your camp . 9 9 

“That’s right, Jefsey.” Mrs. Sibold 
nodded approvingly. “Mr. Dabney Ruffin 
has been a friend to us, setting up money for 
yore stock of goods, and it ’s our duty to help 
his girl. But, Jefsey, don’t you take no use- 
less risks.” 

“I won’t. You can trust me for that,” 
promised Mr. Sibold. 

“Come, Mr. Sibold, let ’s catch those scoun- 
drels,” said Harrison. “Page can stay here 
with Mrs. Sibold. You take your gun and go 
with me to that still — ” 

“Lord save us, no!” ejaculated the old man. 

“We can surprise them and catch them — 
‘ Hands up!’ to them this time — and turn them 
over to the sheriff.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


141 


“Look here, young man! It 's the sheriffs 
business to do the county arresting/ ' Mr. 
Sibold replied. “And I ain't going to take 
his job. I 'm a peaceable man and a post- 
master. I 've got no business at that still.” 

“Indeed you ain't, Jefsey,'' said his wife. 

“But, Mr. Sibold! If we can arrest and 
punish — ” 

“Ah! but they might do the arresting and 
the punishing, ' ' interrupted the canny old man. 
“Come, come! Supper 's ready and waiting. 
And Lotta ain't willing for me to go off with- 
out my supper. Are you, Lotta?” 

“I am not, Jefsey,” his wife said firmly. 
“It always makes you faint-like and real 
dauncy to go about on a empty stomach.” 

“If you won't try to arrest them — we could 
do it, I 'm sure — at least let 's go over there 
and find out who they are, so we can have the 
sheriff follow them up,” urged Harrison. 

Mr. Sibold shook his head. “Supper is 
ready, and my wife will be real put out if I 
don't set down and eat. Won't you, Lotta!” 

“I certain 'y will,” Mrs. Sibold agreed em- 
phatically. 


142 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


The old man sat heavily down to the table. 

“Lord bless us and preserve us! You talk 
about spying on those folks. Why, their dogs 
would nose us out and we ’d likely get shot. ’ 7 

“If you are afraid, just lend me your gun. 
I TL go,” Harrison said impetuously. 

“Oh, no, no, Harrison!” cried Page, cling* 
ing to his arm. 

“No,” Mr. Sibold said placidly. “I ain’t 
going to risk yore getting shot and losing my 
gun. You can report that gang to the sheriff 
to-morrow, if you ’re a mind to. But you 
needn’t mention my name. I don’t know any- 
thing first-hand. ’ ’ 

“To-morrow they ’ll be gone; they ’re going 
to West Virginia to-night.” 

“So much the better. Let ’em go to West 
Virginia, and let West Virginia look out for 
’em. We ain’t got no grievance ’gainst ’em. 
They didn’t aim to hurt you, Page. You put 
yoreself in their way, and they just shut you 
up.” 

“Think how they treated Jimps!” Page 
said indignantly. 

“Oh, well! He ’s just one of the Farlans. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


143 


They ’re trifling, low-down folks, no better ’n 
the Pooles,” said Mr. Sibold. “Them two 
gangs are always in scrimmages. We ’ve got 
no call to bother about that cub. Have a dish 
of kraut, Page. You need to eat to keep up 
yore strength. ’ ’ 

Page shook her head impatiently. “And 
that poor little fellow in the cabin !” she cried. 
“Oh, I don’t see how people can treat their 
child so!” 

“That ain’t Pooles’ child,” said Mrs. Sibold. 
“Bill and Marthy brung it from the porehouse 
some six or seven years ago. Marthy broke 
her leg the winter Bill was down with rheuma- 
tiz, and the county had them hauled to the pore- 
house. This child was there, and Marthy took 
a liking to it and brought it home with her. ’ ’ 

1 ‘ ‘ Took a liking to ! ’ Why, he ’s the most 
miserable, pitiful-looking little thing I ever 
saw!” exclaimed Page. “Those awful people 
ought not to be allowed to keep him.” 

“Well, well!” Mrs. Sibold palliated the 
matter. “It didn’t belong to anybody. Its 
mother had gone off and left it. There were 
so many squalling brats at the porehouse, the 


144 WHISTLING JIMPS 

overseer said he couldn’t keep them kicked 
from underfoot. Nobody worried about Pooles 
taking that one. They say Marthy and Bill 
were right good to it at first; but it took to 
trying to run away, and now they keep it shut 
up in the cabin.” 

Mr. Sibold pushed back his plate and wiped 
his mouth with the back of his hand. 

‘ 4 1 reckon we ’d better hustle along, ’ ’ he said. 
“We ’ll sneak up the hollow and across Gap. 
The Lord defend us from Bill Poole!” 

Three-quarters of an hour later Page and 
Harrison arrived safely at camp, to the great 
relief of their friends. The picnickers had 
waited a while at Squirrel Spring, and then 
had gone home to organize a search-party. 
That was just starting out when Page and her 
cousin returned and told the story of their 
adventures. 

The leaders of the search-party went to the 
hotel and sent a telephone message to New 
Canaan, urging the sheriff to come at once, 
swear them in as deputies, and go to arrest 
the moonshiners. But Sheriff Price prudently 
replied that night was no time to roam the 


WHISTLING JIMPS 145 

woods looking for folks like that; he would 
come in the morning. 

The next morning he ambled to the lake, and 
he and Harrison and Jimps and six or eight 
of the hotel men went to the place where the 
still had been. It was gone. Then they went 
to Butterfly Flat, and there learned from Mr. 
Sibold that a boy who had come to the store 
early that morning had said he had met ’Lijah 
Gooch and Boozer Sam Sawyer with a loaded 
wagon, far on the road to West Virginia. 

“By now they Ve crossed the line,” said the 
sheriff. “It ’s no use to ride after them.” 

Harrison gave an exclamation of disap- 
pointment. “There was another man at the 
still,” he said, “a man they called ‘Bill.’ My 
cousin saw him. Didn’t you see him, Jimps! 
Who was he!” 

“Seemed like thar was somebody movin’ 
round in them bushes,” Jimps answered 
vaguely, “but I didn’t git a view of him.” 

“Didn’t you hear the other men call him 
‘Bill’!” persisted Harrison. “Wasn’t it Bill 
Poole, in whose house my cousin was shut up ! ” 

“Maybe they did call him ‘Bill,’ ” said 


146 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Jimps. “Bill ain’t no uncommon name. Ef 
thar was a man, I ain’t see him good. He was 
in the bushes.” 

“It ’s a shame — a burning shame and dis- 
grace — for such an outrage to go unpunished,” 
Harrison said vehemently. “Those men ought 
to be caught and jailed; they deserve 
hanging. ’ ’ 

4 Oh! take things easy, son; take things 
easy,” advised Mr. Sibold. “You ’ll go far- 
ther and live longer.” 

Without answering, Harrison turned on his 
heel and went back to Starwink Camp in a 
very bad humor. 

He announced his firm and violent opposi- 
tion to Page’s making the intended visit to 
the Sibolds. Who knew what dangers she 
would run into? 

Page laughed at him and refused to give 
up her plans. He appealed to Mrs. Harvie. 
She was unwilling to interfere and change the 
plans made for Page’s vacation by her parents, 
who were now traveling in the far West and 
could not be consulted. “It does seem to me” 
— the much-tried camp-mother heaved a sigh 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


147 


— “that Page has tried out her whole bagful 
of tricks ! Probably everything will go 
smoothly, the few days she is at the Sibolds\ 
They are the very ones to have charge of her 
— quiet, cautious people who will see, for their 
sake and hers, that she doesn’t run risks. 
She has promised me that she will not disobey 
Mrs. Sibold. And really, you know, the region 
is safer, now that moonshine still has been 
broken up.” 

Harrison was not convinced, but he had to 
submit to Mrs. Harvie’s judgment and to 
Page’s wishes. 

Page, having her own way, was in high good- 
humor on that last afternoon at camp, and 
asked Harrison to go with her to the Farlan 
cabin. She was eager to see Jimps, to hear 
from his own lips what had happened after 
they had left him in Rocky Hollow. 

The Farlan home — if such a dear word may 
be applied to the squatters’ hut — was in a 
bare, rocky opening beside the road that 
wound through the pass between Gap and Deer 
mountains. The house was built of rough 
chestnut logs, and was roofed with strips of 


148 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


hemlock bark. There was a rude door on one 
side, but neither window nor chimney. When 
a fire was needed, it was built on the dirt floor, 
and the smoke found its way through the 
cracks in the walls and roof. 

“Harrison! Do people really stay in that 
pen!” cried Page, who had never seen the 
place before. “Why, how can they live in it! 
Oh, look there! look!” 

Sprawled in the sunshine in front of the 
hovel was a group that disentangled itself into 
two razorback pigs, three curs, and the Farlan 
baby. The dogs yelped, and at once the door- 
way became a frame filled with figures — Mrs. 
Farlan, Minta, Nance, Looey, and Sam. 

“And they are smoking! even that little 
girl!” 

Page spoke in an undertone, but Mrs. Far- 
lan J s keen ears caught the words. She gave a 
broad, toothless smile. 

“Uh, they all smokes but the baby,” she 
said. “An’ he gits a whiff t now an* then. 
’Bacco ’s good for folks. It ’s victuals an’ 
medicine an’ comp’ny too.” 

Page gave an embarrassed murmur and 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


149 


some words of greeting. Then she asked : 
“ Where is Jimps? He stayed behind us yes- 
terday, and I was afraid that awful man would 
get him. I was so relieved when my cousin 
said he saw him this morning, all safe.” 

“Uh, yes! Jimps is all right,” said Mrs. 
Farlan. 

* 4 Jimps! uh, Jimps! Here’s yore lady,” 
called Nance. 

“M-m-m!” A murmured greeting came 
from a little distance. 

Page looked around and up. Jimps was 
sprawled like a panther along a great limb 
of a chestnut-tree near the cabin. His face 
shone out of the green gloom with an 
eerie charm. Roaming the woodland, he had 
the wild beauty of a faun; with human crea- 
tures, he showed the roguish mirth and wilful- 
ness of a puck ; now, looking from the shadowy 
depths of the tree, he seemed both faun and 
puck, with a light in his eyes that promised 
something higher — or was it merely a reflected 
sunbeam? 

“Why, Jimps!” exclaimed Page. “What 
are you doing up there ? ’ 9 


150 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“I got a peckerwoods’ nest here, an’ we ’re 
learnin’ ’em to fly,” he answered. 

Page went to the tree and stood watching him. 
A birdling tried to flutter to a near-by bough, 
but its half-fledged wings failed to support it. 
As it w*as falling, Jimps caught it and set it 
gently back on the branch. It cheeped timidly, 
then it flapped its wings, made another effort, 
and succeeded in making a short flight. 

There were four of the birds. Three of them 
learned to balance themselves, and were soon 
fluttering around in the tree. But the fourth 
bird was a weakling. Again and again and 
again Jimps caught it and replaced it on the 
bough. At last, without passion or remorse, 
he wrung its neck and tossed it to the dogs. 

“0 Jimps!” cried Page, shuddering. “How 
could you kill that poor helpless little bird?” 

“ ’Twa’n’t no ’count,” he said coolly. 
“ ’T was a runt an’ kept on tumblin’ down. 
Them others c’n git on all right.” He swung 
himself down out of the tree, and stood beside 
Page, grinning elfishly. “You jest ought to 
seen Pooles when they come back,” he said. 
‘ ‘ They was plumb be-misted. ’ ’ 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


151 


“Oh! did you stay till they came back?” 
Page asked excitedly. “What did they say? 
Were they mad with you? I should think 
you ’d have been afraid of them! ,, 

“Course I ain’t feared of ’em,” boasted 
Jimps; then he said: “You don’t think I let 
’em see me, do you? I dumb a tree, an’ I had 
to stay thar till after dark, for they was 
roamin’ that country, lookin’ for you. They 
put at that young un — Brat, they call it — to 
find out how you got out. Uh ! they quarreled 
an’ he whined.” 

“Poor little thing!” said Page. 

Jimps grinned. “Thar he was, tellin’ ’em 
’bout me as good as he could, an’ they not be- 
lievin’ him. Lawzee, it was funny! He 
kept a-sayin’, ‘It come down the chimbly! it 
come down the chimbly!’ An’ Bill was cuss- 
in’ an’ r’arin’. At last he let the critter 
alone an’ started the dog on yore track. But 
he come back pretty soon. I reckon he give 
up after he found you went to Sibolds’.” 

“Were n’t you afraid he ’d get your track?” 
asked Harrison. 

“Thar wa’n’t none to git,” replied Jimps. 


152 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“When I dumb that tree, I stepped on rocks, 
an’ picked ’em up behind me an’ flung ’em 
away. An’ nobody couldn’t see me in that 
bushy old chestnut. Come dark, I dumb down 
an’ run like a turkey. Bill would ’a’ shot me, 
sure.” 

“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff that Bill 
Poole was the man at the still?” Harrison in- 
quired. “Why did you shield him?” 

“What was the good o’ tellin’?” asked 
Jimps. “You can’t jail or pen a man on 
say-so. Bill c’n say he happened thar, same 
as me, an’ how ’m I to prove he was moon- 
shinin ’ ? Naw, suh ! ‘Twa’n’t no use to name 
his name jest to make him mad at me an’ do 
him no harm. My time will come to even with 
old Bill Poole. When I git a gun, I ’ll plant 
him.” 

“0 Jimps!” said Page. “Don’t you know 
it ’s wrong — it ’s wicked — to talk and feel that 
way?” 

“Wrong!” he echoed, as if the word had no 
meaning for him. 

And, indeed, it had very little. Right and 
wrong — what did he know of them, that poor 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


153 


little squatter in the wild mountain cove? 
Once a year, perhaps, a traveling missionary — 
Catholic priest, Mormon elder, Evangelical 
preacher — came to the cabin in which the Far- 
lans were tarrying, and for half an hour tried 
to guide them in the way for which years of 
precept and example are needed. Sometimes 
an officer of the Home Society found them and 
said the children ought to be taken away; but 
before he could come again the Farlans had 
flitted to another place. 

Kind, wise people on the fertile farms lower 
down the mountain, in the neighborly villages 
in the valleys, and at the near-by hotel were 
truly trying to help these benighted and 
needy ones. But it was hard to reach the wild, 
flitting squatters. No one had ever got near 
the heart of Jimps, who grimaced now at the 
suggestion that it was ‘ 4 wrong” to kill a Poole. 
But his grimace changed quickly to a frown. 
“Thar they come ag’in,” he muttered, looking 
up the path ; and he slipped behind the tree. 

Page and Harrison looked around. 

A group of people was coming toward the 
cabin. Mrs. Candler and Reginald were in 


154 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


front. Behind them two girls, with reddened 
cheeks and hair wadded over their ears, were 
giggling and talking loudly with two sleek, 
dark, stout young men. These sight-seers 
advanced without word or gesture of saluta- 
tion, and stared at the Farlans as if they were 
so many wild animals in a menagerie. 

The Farlans stolidly returned the stare. 
They were used to these silly, curious people, 
who came to gaze at the squatters, tossed them 
coins, and laughed at the money’s being spent 
for tobacco and whisky instead of for whole- 
some food and decent clothes. 

“0 Angelina! Gwendolen!” shrilled Mrs. 
Candler. ‘ 4 That woman and the girls are smok- 
ing! Smoking ! Corn-cob pipes. Oh, isn’t it 
disgusting? See how horrid they look, Reg- 
inald darling, and never, never put filthy to- 
bacco into your sweet, precious mouth.” 

“Sim, that biggest girl ’d be a daisy, dolled 
up,” said the stouter man, gazing at Minta’s 
rosy cheeks and sparkling dark eyes. 

“If there were any of her left, after the dirt 
was off. Gee! she ’s grimy,” answered Sim. 
“Say, Sis, I ’ll send you a cake of soap.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


155 


Minta tossed her head. “Lawzee! How 
much soap do you-all folks want me to have? 
I ’ve got both them two cakes a hoteler give me 
last summer.’ ’ 

“Make it candy instead of soap, Joey,” Sim 
advised, with a guffaw. 

“Hush, you naughty boys!” Mrs. Candler 
chided laughingly. “Look at the smaller girl, 
Gwendolen. She ’s rather pretty.” 

“Oh! she ’s the one I saw at the hotel, sell- 
ing minnows,” said Gwendolen. “Her name is 
Nance.” 

“My name ain’t Nance,” said the child. 

“It ain’t? Why, I thought I saw you — 
It certainly was you. And you said your name 
was Nance.” 

“I got tired bein’ named Nance,” the girl 
said, inspired partly by desire to show off be- 
fore the strangers and partly by a childish envy 
of their furbelowed names and clothes. “My 
name is — is Octavia Snowball Stickweed.” 

There was a shout of laughter. 

“Say! this is great fun, you know,” said 
Joey. 

He flipped a silver coin to Nance, who, with- 


156 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


out change of expression or word of thanks, 
caught it and gave it to her mother. 

As Mrs. Farlan held out her hand for the 
coin, Reginald Candler gave an excited, jubi- 
lant squeal. * ‘ Look, Mama !” he cried. 4 4 Look 
there! That horrid ragged woman has got 
on a ring. It ’s a ring like yours. Where 
you reckon she got it? Did she steal it, like 
that boy wanted to steal yours ? ’ y 

“Oh, Reginald!” Page protested in a 
shocked undertone. “Many people have rings 
like that plain gold band. It *s a wedding- 
ring.” 

“Bet you it came out of a nickle prize-box,’ ’ 
said Joey. “Say, old sister! how about it?” 

Mrs. Farlan had stood stolidly facing her 
visitors, accepting their impertinence for* the 
sake of the small coins that came with it, as a 
hungry dog takes kicks and crusts. But now 
her swarthy face flushed brick-red. 

“I got as good a right to a ring as anybody,” 
she snarled. “And it’s gold, too; it ’s real 
gold. It belonged to my sister that ’s dead.” 

“0 Mama!” Reginald’s impertinent little 
voice shrilled out. “You reckon her sister 


WHISTLING JIMPS 157 

stole it? Are they all stealers, all these dirty 
poor people ?” 

4 4 Reginald ! ’ * exclaimed Page. 

4 4 Come away, Page,” Harrison said in an 
undertone. 4 4 Let *s go home. I can hardly 
keep my hands off that impudent, rotten-spoilt 
little wretch. How do these folks stand him ? ’ ’ 

4 4 Look at Jimps,” whispered Page. 

Jimps had come from behind the tree. His 
lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl 
like an angry dog’s, his dark brows were low- 
ered, and his light, bright eyes gleamed fiercely 
between narrowed lids; he looked ready to 
spring upon Reginald and tear him limb from 
limb. It was for but an instant. His lips fell 
into lines of malicious mirth, he quirked up 
his brows, and his eyes sparkled mischievously. 
Then he sauntered away. In three or four 
minutes he came back, fondling something that 
he held closely in his hands, and stopped near 
Reginald. 

4 4 What ’s that? Let me see,” Reginald de- 
manded. 

Jimps shook his head, and moved away a few 
steps. 


158 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Let me see that, boy! I tell you, let me see 
what you Ve got. ’ ’ 

With seeming reluctance, Jimps displayed a 
gray squirrel. He put it on his shoulder, and 
it cuddled under his chin like a pet kitten. 

“Let me see that squirrel in my hands / ’ 
Reginald said imperiously. “My cousin 
Marie ’s got a squirrel in a cage. When I pinch 
its tail, it squeals; it squeals real loud. I bet 
I can make that one squeal. Here ! let me try. ’ ’ 

“Catch him,” said Jimps. 

He raised his arm. The squirrel ran to his 
hand and made a flying leap into the chest- 
nut-tree. 

“Make it come back! Make it come back, I 
say!” Reginald commanded angrily, pommel- 
ing Jimps with his fists. 

The young mountaineer looked down 
serenely. Then he spoke in a gentle drawl: 
“I know whar thar ’s a — well, you mought call 
it a squirrel — heap bigger an’ prettier ’n that. 
’T ain ’t so far from here. I ’m going to see it 
now. ’ 9 

“I ’m going with you.” 

Jimps did not answer. He thrust his 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


159 


thumbs in the armholes of his overalls and 
went off whistling. After a sly glance at his 
mother, Reginald followed. At the edge of the 
woods he hesitated and looked back. 

“Um-m, it ’s so pretty! Black with a 
white spot on its back,” said Jimps, as if to 
himself. “An’ its black bushy tail!” He 
chuckled with glee. “Folks mighty seldom 
tech one of ’em, but I know whar this one stays, 
jest a le-e-et-tle way off in the woods.” 

“I ’m going to see it. You ’ve got to show 
it to me,” Reginald said arrogantly. 

But he grew uneasy at getting so far away 
from his mama. He lagged again. Again he 
came to heel when Jimps said enticingly, “I 
don’t aim to let folks know whar ’tis; an’ so 
near here, too!” 

Presently the young mountaineer paused 
near a tumbled mass of rocks and looked keenly 
about. 

“She stays thar,” he said. “I ’m jest waitin’ 
till winter, to trap her an’ sell her hide. 
Mostly, she comes out this time o’ evenin’. 
A-ah! Thar she is!” 

The animal issuing from the rock-pile was 


160 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


larger than any squirrel Reginald had seen. It 
had, as Jimps said, a pretty bushy black tail. It 
was followed at a little distance by five young 
ones with which it was starting out in quest of 
food. It paused and surveyed the boys calmly, 
and then ambled quietly along, with its tail 
slightly elevated. 

“See thar! That ’s the tail, the bushy 
pretty tail I was tellin’ you ’bout. She ’s 
holdin’ it up, like it was to pull,” said Jimps. 

Reginald ran forward, squealing with delight. 

“Don’t let her get away! Don’t let her get 
away ! ” he cried. 

“Uh, she won’t get away,” promised Jimps. 
“That she won’t!” 

He retired a little distance and swung him- 
self into a tree while Reginald ran toward the 
animal. 

“Yank her tail!” shouted Jimps. 

“You bet I will!” exclaimed Reginald. 

The animal turned its back to him. It held 
its tail upright, like a flag of warning, 
and hopped up and down. A person familiar 
with quadrupeds might have warned Reginald 
that the creature was not behaving in a squir- 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


161 


rel-like manner; that, indeed, it would be wise 
for him to flee as fast and as far as possible. 

But Reginald had the valor of ignorance. 
He leaned forward to grasp the waving tail, 
and — went prostrate on the ground. A solar- 
plexus blow would not have laid him out more 
swiftly and effectively. He lay still a minute. 
Then he tried to get up, and dropped back, 
writhing and screeching. 

The skunk, with her young ones, went 
serenely on through the woods. Experience 
had taught her that hers was the right of way, 
freely granted by all who knew her; and the 
stoutest foe would speedily retire when she 
ejected the malodorous contents of two scent- 
sacs which are as powerful defensive weapons 
as the venom-sacs of a serpent. 

The Candler party had had its fill of heck- 
ling the Farlans, and was abou.t to start home 
when strange sounds smote the ears — wild 
shriekings of mirth and of distress. 

“Lawzee! what ’s that?” said Mrs. Farlan. 
“It ’s Jimps a-laughm’.” 

“An’ that little rapscallion squallin’, ” said 
Minta. 


162 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Mama! Mama! Mama!” came the howling 
voice. 

“Reginald! it ’s Reginald!” gasped Mrs. 
Candler. “Where are you, darling? What ’s 
the matter? Oh, what is the matter?” 

They all started in the direction from which 
the mingled voices were coming — Mrs. Candler, 
Gwendolen, Angelina, Sim, Joey, Page, Harri- 
son, and all the Farlans including the baby and 
the dogs. 

“Oh! oh! What has happened?” gasped 
Mrs. Candler, as the wind brought an eloquent 
odor to her nostrils. “He — he must have 
stumbled on a bad egg.” 

“A whole nestful,” said Joey, slackening his 
pace. 

“Lawzee! it’s a polecat!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Farlan. 

They halted, all but Mrs. Candler who 
caught her nose in her handkerchief and tried 
to advance to the rescue of her darling. But, 
winded by her run, she had to take breath, and 
that sickening, suffocating stench smote her in 
the face. 

“Run, Reginald, run! Run, darling!” she 


WHISTLING JIMPS 163 

called. “Something — some terrible thing — is 
after you.” 

“It ’s got me, Mama!” he cried. 

And, indeed, it had “got” him, far more 
effectively than with teeth and claws. 

“Get away and come to me,” called Mrs. 
Candler. 

She made a brave effort to stand her ground, 
but wavered at the odor that preceded Regi- 
nald as he came staggering toward her. 

“I can’t get away, Mama! I tell you, it ’s 
got me ! it ’s got me!” he shrieked. 

“It ’s sure got you!” yelled Jimps, who had 
tumbled from his perch and was rolling on the 
ground in paroxysms of mirth. 

“What — have you — done — to my child? — you 
wretch!” gasped Mrs. Candler. 

“I ain’t done nothin’, ” said Jimps triumph- 
antly. “I ain’t teched him. You could n’t pay 
me to tech him — not with a forty-foot pole I 
wouldn’t!” 

As Reginald approached, every one, even his 
mother, fled before him ; the odor was like an in- 
visible moving wall. 

1 i Oh, how terrible ! what is it ? ” gasped Mrs. 


164 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Candler, who was having her first experience 
with Mephitis mephitica. 

“A polecat !” called Harrison, pausing at a 
prudent distance. “You ’ll have to take off 
your clothes, Reginald. Stop there.” 

But Reginald’s one idea was to reach the 
adoring being whom his tears and howls had 
never before failed to bring to his rescue. On 
he came, straight toward his mother. 

“Stop, my son! Stop! Please stop! Don’t 
come any nearer; Reginald, you must stop! 
stop!” she implored and commanded. 

He ran on, and she took to her heels; but, 
alas ! Reginald, howling and shrieking, ad- 
vanced faster than she could retreat. He 
overtook her and threw his arms around her 
knees. Overpowered by the noisome fumes, 
she dropped on the ground; Reginald tumbled 
beside her, and there they lay, writhing and 
racked with nausea. 

It was all so absurdly, though miserably, 
funny that the onlookers could not help laugh- 
ing. They roared until tears streamed down 
their cheeks and their sides fairly ached. At 
the slightest lull in their mirth, Reginald’s 


WHISTLING JIMPS 165 

angry screeches made themselves heard, and 
excited louder peals of merriment. 

Jimps was like a mirth-mad imp of mischief. 
He whirled around on tiptoe, clapping his 
hands and uttering peals of jeering laughter, 
which were so exasperating that Reginald, ill 
as he was, jumped up and pursued him. They 
circled around the clearing like Indians in a 
war-dance, Jimps whooping with glee and 
Reginald shrieking with rage and misery. At 
last Reginald gave up the vain chase and ran 
back to his mother. 

“Take off — your clothes V 9 she gasped. 

He jerked them off and rolled away from 
them. Then his mother staggered to her feet, 
wrapped him in her sweater, and bore him off 
toward the hotel. 

Jimps pursued them. His mocking cry 
followed them even to their cottage door: 
“Oh, mommer’s sweet pet! sweet pet!! sweet 
pet!!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


A WEEK passed. Starwink Camp was for- 
saken; its joys were things of memory 
and of anticipation. Mrs. Harvie and her sons 
had gone home; Mary Watkins and Elinor 
Lane were on a motoring trip with Anne Lewis 
and her adoptive family. Page Ruffin was with 
the Sibolds at Butterfly Flat. Harrison had 
gone on the hike that was to end at Hilltop 
Lake a few days later; then he and Page 
were to return home. 

One pleasant morning Mrs. Sibold and Page 
went to Lake Hotel to carry some butter and 
eggs. Leaving the good dame to bargain with 
the steward, Page strolled down to the lake. 
How lovely it was, and how oblivious of the 
dear, beautiful days. There it lay, as smiling 
and placid as if the Starwink campers ’ canoes 
and diving forms had never broken its surface. 
She turned her back on it and wandered 
desolately around the old camp ground, then 
166 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


167 


she plodded up the path. Silently and with 
downcast eyes, she climbed into the rickety, 
buggy. 

“What ails you, dear?” asked Mrs. Sibold, 
as she drove down the road. “Are you sick, 
not to be talking and smily?” 

“Our old camp makes me — oh! sort of for- 
lorn,” Page said; and then she added almost 
indignantly: “I wish places looked as if they 
remembered and loved the happy times that 
have been there, as if they belonged to the 
things that belong to them. I wish, oh! I 
wish they did n’t forget.” 

Mrs. Sibold shook her head so vigorously 
that all her double chins wabbled. 

“There ’s two sides to that, my dear. If 
they remembered the pleasant happenings, I 
reckon they ’d have to remember the other 
kind, too. So it ’s lucky for things to pass 
without leaving a shadow, like that cloud up 
there. 

“Ah, Page child! A many sad and terrible 
thing has happened here in these mountains. 
This was wild and dangerous land when the 
first settlers came up here, clearing little 


168 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


patches and guarding their stock and them- 
selves against wolves and bears and panthers, 
and against Indians, the bloody Shawnees 
swooping down to wipe out settlements. 
You We heard about Mary Draper Ingles, that 
they carried off to the Ohio country, and how 
she got away and tramped home, forty long 
hard days’ journey ?” 

“She was a wonderful, brave woman,” said 
Page. 

“I warrant the mountains looked awful and 
fierce to her, limping along, trying to find nuts 
and berries to keep life in her body. And they 
were lonesome places for all settler women 
when their men-folks went off to trade furs for 
salt and iron. It took weeks and weeks to 
make the trip horseback to Salisbury, down in 
North Carolina, going in winter when there 
was least danger of Indian raids, and leaving 
the women at home with rifles and bear-dogs 
to fend off beasts and redskins.” 

“It ’s interesting to think how things were 
then, and how ( different they are now,” com- 
mented Page. 

“Well, Indians and wolves and panthers are 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


169 


gone,’’ said Mrs. Sibold. “But the mountains 
are here, strong and rough and hard to tame. 
Oh! they look mighty pleasant to you in sum- 
mer-time. There *s that road between Gap 
Mountain and Deer Mountain; you were talking 
yesterday about how pretty it is. Um! um! 
urn!” She shook her head and flapped the 
old roan mare with the loose reins. 

“Yes,” said Page. “It is a lovely road, 
winding through the chestnut woods, with the 
mountains on both sides.” 

“The mountains on both sides,” Mrs. Sibold 
repeated. Her mild eyes looked back, far into 
the past. “And in the winter the winds go 
howling there and the snow drifts till it maybe 
fills the gap. That ’s what it did one Janu- 
ary that I mind mighty well. It was thirty 
years ago. Jefsey was clerking for Mr. 
France, that had a store and a mill half-way 
down the mountain. 

“I well remember the day the Bane boys — 
Bud was eighteen and Zack was just turned fif- 
teen — came to the mill and had their corn 
ground and started home, toting the bag turn 
about. I remember just how that cloud looked, 


170 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


dark and heavy. It spit big flakes a while ; then 
snow came blinding thick, with the wind beat- 
ing it like flails. The storm caught the boys. ,, 

She paused and sighed. 

“The next day Andy Bane came to the mill 
for folks to help find them. Jefsey and the 
others went up the mountain, with Mr. France ’s 
horse, that was wise as a man, going ahead to 
open a w-ay. They found the boys in that pass 
between Gap and Deer, under the snow. Zack 
had given up first. There was the meal- 
bag in the road, where Bud had set it down; 
he had gone back and was standing with his 
hands under Zack’s elbows, to histe him up. 
Only a quarter of a mile from home ! And both 
of them frozen stiff.’ ’ The old woman nodded 
her head. “That ’s what I see, dear, when I 
go through that pass, and I ’m glad the sight 
ain’t fixed there for folks coming after me. 
Thirty years ago that was.” 

“I was thinking, at first, of the pleasant 
things. There are the other kind. Oh, I know 
that.” Page shuddered. After a pause she 
said: “Thirty years ago, Mrs. Sibold! You ’ve 
lived in the mountains a long time.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 171 

‘‘All my life,” answered Mrs. Sibold. “Me 
and Jefsey was from the same settlement.” 

“You aren’t like the other people round 
here,” said Page. 

“We are different,” Mrs. Sibold replied. 
“We are Hessians.” 

“Hessians!” exclaimed Page. “Why, I 
thought the Hessians were in history books.” 
She laughed. “I mean, that ’s the only place 
I ever think of their being in America. You 
aren’t joking?” 

“Hessians we are,” Mrs. Sibold repeated. 
“You see, the Hessians were people that were 
sent over — they did n ’t come of their will and 
desire — to fight in the Revolution.” 

“Oh! I know.” Page hastily aired her text- 
book knowledge. “They were hired to King 
George, that German king of England, to fight 
the colonists. They surrendered to Washing- 
ton at Trenton.” 

“And then what became of them?” asked 
Mrs. Sibold. 

“I don’t know,” said Page. 

“Well, I can tell you about some of those 
Hessians, for they were my people and Jefsey ’s, 


172 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


and the tale has come down straight. They 
were sent for safe-keeping to Virginia. Then 
the Redcoats came South. Folks didn’t know 
where Tarleton and the other Britishers would 
march and raid, but they did know the moun- 
tains were a wall that would keep them back. 
So they sent the Hessians — some of them, any- 
way — to the Alleghanies. Then the war ended. 
And somehow the Government seemed to for- 
get those Hessian prisoners. They stayed in 
the mountains, and here their folks are now — 
hard-working, law-abiding people, the most of 
them — Kinzers, Keisters, Brozes, Lugars, 
Prizes, and others.” 

“ And you really are — Oh, look !” Page inter- 
rupted herself. 1 * There are the Farlans . 9 9 

They were crossing the road, Minta carrying 
the baby poised on her hip as usual, Nance with 
a bucket of minnows, Looey and Sam trailing 
behind. Jimps had flitted ahead and was lying 
on the ground, gazing up through the flickering 
chestnut leaves into the blue misty depths of 
the sky. Page heard his sweet clear whistle, 
that rippled and rustled like the summer out- 
doors. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 173 

By this time the winding road had come to the 
stream above Butterfly Flat. 

“Oh!” said Page. “I like this place where 
Falling Water goes along gurgling like a happy 
baby. ' ' 

“H'm! That little creek looks mighty 
pretty and playful to you,” said Mrs. Sibold, 
shaking her head and frowning at the stream. 
“But it 's bad and wild in storm times.” 

“That merry little stream!” 

Mrs. Sibold shook her head emphatically. 
“Ah! you haven't seen it on a rampage in a 
flood. Oh, the power of that swift water! 
I 'll never forget the day it took Mr. Shering- 
ham's child. Never!” 

“Mr. Sheringham's child!” Page exclaimed. 
“Not that Mr. Sheringham in Rocky Hollow — 
the man people call ‘old Shearam'F' 

“Shearam 's the way folks hereabouts call 
the name,” said Mrs. Sibold. “But it 's Sher- 
ing-ham, spelt out on his letters.” 

“I never thought of his having chick or 
child,” said Page; “he seems so by himself.” 

“All alone and by himself he is,” Mrs. Si- 
bold agreed. “But he had a wife and he had a 


174 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


child.” And then, liking nothing better than 
to drone out her reminiscences, she told the 
story of which Falling Water reminded her. 

“ First I knew Mr. Sheringham, he came up 
here hunting, eight or ten years ago, with some 
other men. They had a cabin built and they 
named it ‘ Jolly Hunters’ Lodge’; it ’s the place 
folks call now ‘Shearam’s Den.’ Well, Mr. 
Sheringham fell in love with Nancy Bane — she 
was a pretty girl and a smart one, too — and 
they were married. They stayed a while honey- 
mooning in that cabin, and then they went 
away. And two or three years after, she came 
back. She had run away from her husband 
and come home to her own folks with her boy. 
That was the child that fell into Falling Water, 
in the rapids right below Butterfly Flat.” 

“And it was — was drowned?” Page asked. 

“Yes. It was swept over Crystal Falls into 
that deep pool, and they never even got its body 
for its poor mother to cry over. She went up 
and down, the stream like a crazy woman, beg- 
ging for her baby. She was puny and ailing 
then, and she died not long after, poor soul! 
That was three years ago.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 175 

“Poor mother! Poor little child !” Page ex- 
claimed. 

“Ah, well! The little thing couldn’t suffer 
much in the swift minutes from Butterfly Flat 
to Crystal Falls.’ ’ 

“Yes, yes!” said Page, shuddering. “It ’s 
terrible, but not so bad — Oh ! a child ’s better 
dead than shut up like that little fellow at the 
Pooles’. 0 Mrs. Sibold! I keep thinking 
about him. I see it in my dreams even — that 
lovely face, that looks so pitiful and so — so 
empty. What is the matter with him?” 

“Nothing. You couldn’t see him good in 
that dark place, and you were all worked up. 
He’s a right well-favored child — or was. I 
haven’t seen him for a long time, not since he 
took to running off and they shut him up.” 

“And you say they ’ve had him for years? 
those awful people!” 

“Six or seven years. They brought him 
from the porehouse the spring after Marthy 
broke her leg.” 

“Oh, dear!” Page sighed. 

She did not speak again, and when they 
stopped at Butterfly Flat she went soberly out 


176 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


to the hammock. There she sat, frowning at 
an unopened book, blind and deaf to the beauty 
of the summer day. She saw only the child 
grasping at the one sunbeam flickering into 
that gloomy hut; she heard only his whimper- 
ing cries, that faltering, sweet “Be good, girl, 
be good ! ’ ’ Tears rained down her cheeks. 

If only her father were here, he would find 
a way to rescue the imprisoned child. Or Har- 
rison; he might be able to do or to suggest 
something. But suppose the child died before 
Harrison came back? How could he keep on 
living, shut up in that dungeon? 

“Oh! somebody has got to do some thing / 9 
she said vehemently. “Somebody must help 
that child, and I reckon it ’s me. But what can 
I do?” 

Suddenly she heard a familiar whistle, and 
she sprang up and clapped her hands. Then 
her face fell. 

“But no!” she said. “It can’t be.” 

The whistle, which ended with a ripple and a 
gurgle, was repeated. Page gave an answer- 
ing whistle and ran across the flat, over the 
foot-bridge, and along the path. There, be- 


WHISTLING JIMPS 177 

side a spring that trickled from under the cliff, 
Jimps Farlan was lying at ease. 

“Oh! here you are. You really are here,” 
Page said breathlessly. “I thought I must 
have imagined I heard you, for I ’d just seen 
you on the road. But when you whistled again, 
I knew it was you.” 

“We met some men an’ sold our minnows. 
We come here to git some more. I ’m goin’ up 
the clifft presen ’ly. The light ’s jest right to 
make them sparklers shine pretty. You 
mought want to go.” 

“I do. I should love to see our Jewel-Box,” 
said Page. “But there ’s something else I 
want — oh! more than anything in the world. 
It ’s to do something for that child, poor Brat. 
But I don’t dare go there by myself.” 

“I mought go with you,” said Jimps. 

“Oh! you can’t,” said Page. “You say the 
Pooles will shoot you if they catch you there.” 

“Um-h’m! That makes it more fun to go,” 
replied Jimps, his sweet, faunlike look chang- 
ing to a puckish grin. “I was aimin’ to go 
thar real soon, an’ do somethin’ to plague ’em. 
I c’n go now, good as any time.” 


178 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Well — but no! I ’m afraid for you to go. 
Suppose the Pooles see you?” 

“S’pose they don’t? A good day like this, 
old Bill an’ Marthy ’s apt to be off huckle- 
berryin’, or fishin’, or somethin’. We c’n fox 
round an’ find out if they ’re home.” 

“I ’ll run back and get some candy, and I ’ll 
ask Mrs. Sibold for doughnuts. She can think 
they ’re for me.” 

“I ’ll be waitin’ down-stream,” said Jimps. 

Page returned to the Sibolds’, and in a few 
minutes came back down Falling Water. She 
found the Farlan children fishing for minnows 
a little below the spring. All of them except 
Jimps had fishing-poles. He was standing in 
the stream; and now and then he darted for- 
ward, thrust his hands into the water, and 
brought out a wriggling little fish. When Page 
called to him, he dropped a .minnow into the 
bucket and scrambled up to the path. 

“You Jimps!” called Minta. “Stay here 
an’ holp git minnows. You c’n ketch more 
with yore bare hands than we-all with hooks 
an’ lines.” 

Without answering, he went on his way. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


179 


He and Page followed the path down Falling 
Water, and turned up Rocky Hollow. There 
the trail led close to the little stream called 
Rocky Run. Jimps flitted on, — now dancing 
merrily like the rushing brook, now gliding 
along by still pools, — and his voice crooned and 
murmured and rippled like the plashing water. 
He only nodded his head or laughed or gri- 
maced when Page spoke to him ; and at last she 
was silent, and strolled along, thinking what a 
sweet, wild, playful creature he was, as full of 
harmless mirth as a glancing sunbeam. 

Just then they came to the knoll on which 
“Shearam’s Den” was perched. Jimps 
scowled and picked up a stone and hurled it 
at the window. Most of the panes were al- 
ready broken, and the stone went through a 
hole and clattered on the floor. 

“0 Jimps !” Page remonstrated. “ Good- 
ness! Why did you do that?” 

“He ’s sich a mean old man,” Jimps said 
vindictively. “I ’d like to bust his head open. 
Hark ! Thar ’s somebody. Git behind that 
rock, quick!” 

Page hurriedly obeyed, expecting Mr. Sher- 


180 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


ingham to appear and pursue and punish them. 
But a moment later she realized that the voices 
and footsteps were coming down the path. 
Peeping around the rock, she saw through the 
foliage the gorilla-like man she had caught a 
glimpse of at the still. A woman was with 
him. 

“Pooles! old Bill an’ Marthy!” whispered 
Jimps. 

Page hardly dared to breathe ; not until long 
after the couple was out of sight and hear- 
ing did she follow Jimps back to the path. 

“Maybe — maybe we ’d better not go to that 
cabin,” she said fearfully. 

“Not go? — in sich luck, too!” exclaimed 
Jimps. “Pooles is out the way for two-three 
hours sure. They ’re goin’ to the store, to do 
thar tradin’. Marthy had a bucket o’ huckle- 
berries.” 

“We-ell. Do they always leave Brat there 
alone ? ’ ’ 

“I reckon so,” answered Jimps. “What 
would they do with him?” 

“Mrs. Sibold says they ’ve had the poor 
child ever since he was a baby,” said Page. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


181 


“Um-h’m. He ’s ’bout old as Looey; she 
was the baby when they come from the pore- 
house.” 

“I don’t see how he keeps on living, shut 
up in that black hole,” Page said, shuddering. 

“We heared tell he was dead onct,” said 
Jimps; “but that wa’n’t so. They’d jest 
took to shettin’ him up ’cause he runned off 
when he got a chanct. He got past old Shear- 
am’s onct, ’most to Failin’ Water — Pap Martin 
seen him — ’fore Pooles cotch him. Now they 
keep the house door locked.” 

“And the poor child in that dark, horrid 
place!” said Page. 

“He ought to mind ’em an’ not run away,” 
Jimps responded unsympathetically. 

They were now approaching the Pooles’ cabin. 

“How on earth are we going to give the 
things to Brat?” asked Page. 

“I c’n go down the chimbly ag’in,” said 
Jimps. 

“That would scare him so,” she objected. 
“He was terrified, and so was I, ‘when we heard 
you tumbling down and saw you standing on 
the hearth, all sooty and grinning. And the 


182 WHISTLING JIMPS 

Pooles might come back and catch you in the 
house.” 

“I chi stand on the chimbly an’ throw the 
things down,” he suggested. 

“He might never get them. He wouldn’t 
think of looking in the ashes,” said Page. 
“Anyway, I want to give them to him. I want 
him to take them from us and know that we are 
his friends.” 

“I c’n bust a hole twixen the logs, whar you 
chi poke ’em in,” said Jimps. 

This suggestion found favor with Page. If 
there were a hole in the wall, she could not 
only thrust the things inside, but also peep in 
and see Brat and talk to him. Perhaps he 
would remember her friendly voice and would 
answer her. 

Jimps found an old ax and knocked out the 
daubing and broke the chinking between two 
logs. 

“Whew! it ’s hot,” he said, pausing to mop 
away with his arm the sweat that dripped from 
his face. 

The morning’s misty sky had deepened into 
a dazzling blue, and on the horizon were piled 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


183 


great thunder-heads, white where the sunlight 
caught them, and boiling up below in angry 
dark masses. 

“Thar! The hole ’s big enough. Poke in 
the things ,’ 9 Jimps said presently; then he 
laughed. “I bet Brat is scroonched down in 
that trash, shakin’ like a leaf, he ’s so skeered.” 

“Oh! I hope not; but I ’m afraid he is,” 
Page replied. She put her face close to the 
crack and said gently: “Brat! Brat! We ’ve 
come to see you. I ’m the girl that was 
fastened up here the other day, the one you 
told to ‘be good.’ I ’ve brought you some 
candy and cakes and a pretty top. Come and 
get them. Here ’s a nice brown doughnut.” 

She pushed the cake into the hole, and it 
fell on the floor. There was a shivery squeal. 
She called and coaxed and entreated ; but 
the child, crouching under the table, did not 
answer. 

“I reckon we ’ll have to give up,” she said 
at last, with a sigh. “I hope he ’ll find the 
things after he -gets over being so scared, and 
then he ’ll know we are his friends. Next time 
surely he ’ll not be so afraid of us. Oh, dear! 


184 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


The top won’t go through this hole.” 

“Bet Ic’n make it go,” said Jimps. 

He turned the toy this way and that, but in 
vain. 

“I ’ll bust a bigger hole,” he said. He 
hacked and hewed on the log a while, then he 
said; “Thar! Now I c’n chunk it in.” 

“Do. And then we must go,” said Page. 

“Uh! Pooles ain’t had time to go to the 
store and git back, ’ ’ he said. 

“I keep expecting them all the time,” she 
confessed. 

She went to the corner of the cabin, glanced 
up the path, and, springing back, caught Jimps 
by the shoulder. 

“There she is!” she cried. “There’s the 
woman. They ’re coming!” 

“Run! To the woods. Keep the cabin 
twixen you an’ them.” 

Jimps started to follow Page; then he saw 
that Marthy Poole was alone and walking 
slowly to favor her lame leg. Bill might be 
behind her on the path, or he might be miles 
away. After going to so much trouble to en- 
large that hole, it was a pity not to give the top 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


185 


to Brat. Jimps ran back and put the toy into 
the opening. It canght on a rough edge of the 
log. He had to pull it out, turn it around, and 
push again before it went in and fell clattering 
on the cabin floor. Then he, too, sped to shel- 
ter. 

At the edge of the woods, he turned to look 
back. He caught his foot on a root and fell 
sprawling, and a jagged stone gashed his cheek. 

“Drat them Pooles!” he said, as angrily as 
if BilPs knife had made the wound. 

Mopping the blood from his face with the 
back of his hand, he ran on, and a moment 
later joined Page in the thicket. 

“I ’d like to kill Pooles an’ take Brat away!” 
he cried, clenching his fist, with a feeling of 
having common cause with the child for whom 
he was suffering. 

“Oh! I do wish we could take him away,” 
exclaimed Page. 

“Let ’$ do it,” said Jimps, and his face 
lighted up. “Lawzee! Won't it make Pooles 
mad!” 


CHAPTER IX 


* 4 /^V JIMPS ! I wish we could get him now, 

V^/ right now ! ’ ’ cried Page. 

“We could, ef Marthy wa’n’t thar,” said 
Jimps. “I dunno what the old fool come back 
for. She ain’t had time to take her huckle- 
berries to the store. We ’ll fox round an’ see 
What she ’s up to. I ain’t in no rush to go, 
’less I see Bill.” 

He and Page perched themselves upon a 
rock where, screened by the foliage, they could 
watch the cabin. 

What was Marthy Poole doing in the house? 
they wondered. What would she think when 
she discovered that hole? Would she believe 
Brat had made it? and punish him? 

As a matter of fact, Marthy had left her 
berries beside the path and returned to get a 
rattlesnake skin she hoped to sell. Without 
seeing the hole which was concealed by a corner 
of the bed, she dropped down on the doorsill to 
186 


WHISTLING JIMPS 187 

rest. Presently she glanced toward the table, 
where Brat was crouched, muttering to himself. 

“You Brat! Come here,” she called loudly 
but not unkindly. 

He crawled out and came staggering toward 
her. She caught him by the arm and spoke 
slowly and emphatically, as if addressing a 
deaf person. 

“You look on the table an’ git that snake 
hide an’ bring it to me.” 

The child ’s vacant eyes turned toward her 
and then wandered away. When she repeated 
her command, he went with halting, uneven 
steps to the table, and brought the snake skin 
wrapped in a dirty rag. As he approached the 
door, open to the sunlit summer world, a change 
came over him. A smile drifted across his 
face; he spread his little hands toward the 
grateful sunshine, and took two or three eager, 
furtive steps. 

“You Brat! Whar you gom’?” asked 
Marthy, catching him by the shoulder. 

He gave a murmur that she translated into 
words: “You dunno? Then what you go in’ 
for?” 


188 WHISTLING JIMPS 

He put his hands to his temples and began 
to whimper. 

“Is yore head bad?” she asked. “Pore 
Brat! pore little Brat!” 

She put her big, rough hands very gently on 
his head. The child crouched at her side and 
murmured softly while she stroked his aching 
brow. 

“I wisht you would n’t try to run off,” she 
said, gazing at him with an expression of help- 
less perplexity. “Lawd knows I do!” 

Presently she looked at the sky and frowned. 

“A storm ’s cornin’, an’ cornin’ fast,” she 
said. “I doubt I c’n make it to the store ’fore 
it breaks. Ef I hadn ’t left them berries on the 
path, I ’d stay right here. But I reckon I got 
to go.” 

She lifted the child, put him in the house, and 
shut the door. He beat on the door urgently 
with his little fists and screamed again and 
again. It was a strange, unhuman cry, like an 
animal in a nightmare of pain and terror. 
Marthy groaned and shuddered at the sound; 
but she fastened the door and limped down the 
path. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 189 

“Wh-what ’s that?” stammered Jimps. “Is 
she killin ? him?” 

“Oh! oh! Isn’t it terrible?” gasped Page. 
“That ’s the same noise — I heard it — I don’t 
know — ” 

Marthy was now ont of sight, and Jimps and 
Page ran to the cabin. Jimps climbed to the 
roof and dropped down the chimney and flung 
open the shutter. Then he went to the table, 
and Page heard whimpering cries and sounds 
of a scuffle. 

“He ’s all right; she ain’t hurt him. But he 
won’t come out, the little fool! He ’s fightin’ 
me off like a bobcat.” 

“0 Jimps! can’t you make friends with 
him?” Page said imploringly. 

She scrambled up on the rough logs and 
leaned in the window, calling to the child: 
“Brat! Brat! come on with us. Come away 
from this horrid place.” 

“He ’s skeerier ’n a old crow,” said Jimps. 
“We ain’t got time now to tame him. We got 
to make tracks ’fore Pooles come back. Out 
you go, tadpole ! ’ ’ 

He pulled the child from under the table and 


190 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


carried him to the window and put him out. 
Page caught at his arm ; but, in a paroxysm of 
terror, he jerked away, leaving a rag of his 
shirt-sleeve in her hand. 

But he did not scurry off to hide in the woods 
or to overtake Marthy on the path. He stag- 
gered to the door and beat on it with his little 
weak hands; then he ran around the house, 
keeping his fingers on the familiar logs, and 
crawled under the grindstone in the comer by 
the chimney. Poor creature! That was the 
place most like his forlorn refuge under the 
table that he could find. He buried his face in 
his hands and crouched there, moaning and 
quivering. 

“ Honey words ain’t no good,” Jimps said 
bluntly to Page, who was trying to soothe the 
child. “You jest skeerin’ him worser. We 
got to hurry ’way from here; tote him off an’ 
tame him when we git time. ’ ’ 

He caught up the resisting child and started 
down the path at a dogtrot. 

“We want to git to Failin’ Water ’fore 
Pooles come back,” he said. “We c’n go a 
piece down-stream; an’ when we see ’em turn 


WHISTLING JIMPS 191 

up the hollow, we chi travel up-stream an’ take 
Brat to Siboldsh” 

‘ ‘ Oh ! ’ ’ There were dismay and uncertainty 
in Page ’s voice. She had been too eager to get 
Brat away from the wretched cabin where he 
was imprisoned to consider what they were to 
do with him. Now, for the first time, she re- 
flected on the difficulties before them. “Mr. 
Sibold won ’t be willing to have him there , 1 9 she 
said. “He *s so afraid of getting mixed up in 
a fuss! 0 Jimps! What can we do with the 
poor little thing ?” 

“I chi take him home,” said Jimps. “But 
he chi git out twixen them logs anywhar, and 
he ’d run off sure. I tell you ! Let ’s take 
him down to the old sawmill. I c’n pen him 
in thar, an* we chi tote victuals to him. Keep 
still, you little imp ! Whew ! that ’s a black 
cloud!” 

“Is — is it going to storm?” faltered Page. 
“I don’t mind rain, but a storm — ” 

“Them ’s thunder-heads,” Jimps said care- 
lessly. “Hark! What ’s that? Lawzee! 
It ’s them!” 

There was no mistaking the voices, the gruff 


192 WHISTLING JIMPS 

drawl of Bill Poole and the thin, nasal tones 
of his wife. 

Page and Jimps ran into the bushes and 
crouched behind a rock. They did not speak 
or move; they hardly breathed as the Pooles 
came on up the path. 

“ I saw that storm bilin’ up,” Bill was say- 
ing to his wife, “an’ I knowed you wouldn’t 
have time to make it to the store. So I come 
on back an’ brung yore berries. Now, to-mor- 
row — ” 

Page did not heed the end of the sentence. 
Just then the Pooles ’ dog, which had been sniff- 
ing at the ground, gave a sharp yelp and ran 
into the bushes. It bristled up and gave a 
fierce growl when it saw Page. 

‘ 4 They Ve got us!” groaned Jimps. 

But Brat smiled and held out his hand, say- 
ing softly, 4 1 Trailer ! old Trailer ! 9 9 

The dog stopped growling and looked from 
Page to the child; it trotted to him, dropped 
its muzzle into his palm, and stood silently ac- 
cepting his caresses until Bill Poole, who had 
gone on up the path, gave a sharp whistle ; then 
the dog turned and ran away. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 193 

“We 've got to leave Brat an* run,” Jimps 
said in a hurried undertone. 

“But Jimps—” 

He cut short Page's protest. “Bill 's got 
his gun. He ’ll miss Brat, an' that dog '11 lead 
him back here. He '11 shoot us sure.” 

He pushed the child into the bushes — gently, 
in spite of the dire need for haste — and caught 
Page's arm and dragged her along with him. 

“Ef we git away, we c'n come back for Brat. 
But ef they ketch us — uh, Lawd ! ” He groaned. 
“Thanks be, the rain 's a-comin'.” 

On they ran down the path. They did 
not take time to look back; even if they had, 
they could not have seen what was happening. 

Bill and Marthy Poole went on till they came 
to the edge of the clearing. There Bill stopped 
short. 

“Look thar!” he exclaimed. “The win- 
dow 's open.” 

He jumped behind a tree, with his gun at the 
ready, and gave a sharp low call to his dog, 
which came at once and crouched beside him. 

“I reckon it 's revenues,” he said. “Maybe 
they 're thar now. You go an' see, Marthy.” 


194 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


It was not cowardice that made him send his 
wife forward while he waited. He knew that if 
the officers were inside they would not harm 
the woman; and she could call a warning that 
would give him a chance to escape. 

Marthy went across the clearing, hallooing: 
i ‘Hey! hey! Who ’s thar? Who ’s broke in 
my house? Hey! hello !” 

There was no answer. 

She approached the cabin slowly and cau- 
tiously, stopping every few steps to call and to 
wait for an answer. She gazed at the open 
window, but she did not dare look in — perhaps 
to put her head against the muzzle of a gun. 
She got the key; unlocked the door; and, with 
a final halloo to whoever might be inside, she 
threw open the door. No one was in sight. 
After standing two or three minutes on the 
threshold, peering about, she went in and 
searched the room and the loft above. The 
place was empty; empty indeed. For now she 
realized what she had not noticed at first — that 
Brat was gone. 

6 ‘ Bill! uh, Bill!” she called. “Ain’t nobody 
here; but somebody ’s been an’ took Brat!” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


195 


In a twinkling Bill Poole was in the cabin. 

4 4 Drat it!” he cried. 4 ‘Trailer was scentin’ 
’em — an’ me whistlin’ him off ’stead o’ lookin’! 
Here, Trailer, here, suh! Track ’em, track 
’em, I say!” 

The dog ran down the path and led its master 
straight to Brat. He was sitting just where 
Jimps had left him, crooning softly and grasp- 
ing at the sunbeams flickering through the 
foliage. 

“How ’d you git here?” Bill demanded, with 
an oath. 

The child stopped babbling to himself and 
gave the man a dazed look. 

“How ’d you git here? Who let you out?” 
Bill asked again. 

“You ’re too rough,” said Marthy. “Here! 
Le’ me ax him.” She took the child by the 
shoulders and demanded his wandering atten- 
tion. 4 4 How — did — you — git — out ? ’ ’ 

Brat shivered and whined. “The window! 
the window ! An ’ took me. ’ ’ 

“Who was it? An’ how did they open the 
window ? ’ ’ asked Bill. 

4 4 The ‘window ! An ’ took me, ’ ’ Brat repeated. 


196 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Bill jerked out an oath. “ Leave him be, an’ 
follow Trailer that ’s got more sense/ ’ he said. 
“He ’ll git thar track.” 

“That he won’t; not now,” said Marthy. 
“In two minutes it ’ll be rainin’ an’ thar won’t 
be no tracks to git.” 

Between them and Deer Mountain, on the 
other side of Falling Water, there was a curtain 
of rain. The storm had already broken there, 
and now was sweeping up the hollow. A few 
big raindrops came plashing down. There was 
a sultry, ominous hush, and then a gust of wind. 
The clouds, closing and darkening overhead, 
were cut by swordlike flashes of lightning. 

“Here comes the storm,” said Marthy. 
“I ’m goin’ home. ’T ain’t no sense in keepin’ 
my rheumatiz out in the wet.” 

With a volley of oaths, Bill too gave up the 
pursuit. He whistled the dog back and they 
followed the home-going path. When they 
came to Brat, Marthy took him by the hand. 

“Honey,” she said, “what makes you so 
heady ’bout runnin’ ’way? Uh, Brat! Brat! 
Why ain’t you like — like folks?” 

She led the child back to the cabin and put 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


197 


him inside. He went to the old table and 
crouched down in the rubbish. Presently he 
raised his head and peeped out. Bill and 
Marthy Poole were sitting at the cabin door, so 
upset and puzzled by the invasion of their den 
that they did not heed even the tempest pouring 
and flashing and crashing around them, much 
less the child. 

The room was as usual, except for that hole 
between the logs and some things scattered on 
the floor. The child gazed a long time at one of 
these, a little red-and-white stick ; then he sidled 
toward it and picked it up. He scuttled back 
under the table and peered again at the Pooles ; 
but they were still sitting with their faces 
toward the stormy outdoors. Unnoticed, he 
found and feasted on the goodies that Page had 
brought. 

The storm that drove the Pooles home 
found Page and Jimps half-way down Rocky 
Hollow. Page had thought that she was travel- 
ing her fastest; but a sharp flash of lightning, 
closely followed by a deafening peal of thunder, 
made her catch her breath and quicken her pace. 

“0 Jimps! A storm is coming !” she cried. 


198 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“It ’s done come,” Jimps answered. “It ’s 
rainin’ on Deer Mountain now. It ’ll be pour- 
in’ bucketfuls here in a minute.” 

“I don’t mind the rain. It ’s the lightning, 
the thunder! They ’re so awful! Oh! oh!” 
She screamed as the lightning flashed again. 
“We must take shelter somewhere.” 

“We c’n set under a rock, ef you want to,” 
he said. “But we ’d best keep goin’. Ef 
lightning’s goin’ to hit you, it ’ll hit you — 
zip!” 

“Oh! oh!” Page jumped and stumbled as an- 
other zigzag flash rent the cloud and the 
thunder bombarded the mountains. 

“What makes you so skeered?” asked Jimps. 

“I don’t know — but I am. I never was out 
in a storm before. I feel as if it ’s all aimed 
at me and bound to strike me. Oh ! oh ! Thank 
goodness, there ’s a house, Mr. Sheringham’s. 
Come on, Jimps. Run!” She caught him by 
the hand and pulled him along, crying, “Oh, 
hurry ! Run ! ’ ’ 

“I ’m not goin’ thar,” said Jimps. 

“But you must! I’ll die if I stay out 
here!” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


199 


“I don’t want to go thar,” he said, jerking 
away from her. * ‘ You leave me be. ’ ’ 

Page caught his arm. 4 ‘We must go there, 
out of this awful storm/ ’ she cried. 

They struggled with each other, he trying to 
drag her on, and she, with the strength of her 
desperate terror, pulling him toward the house 
till they were at the very doorstep of “Shear- 
am’s Den.” 

“And we ’ll try to get Mr. Sheringham to 
help Brat,” said Page eagerly. 

“Aw, come on ’way!” snarled Jimps. 
“Shearam won’t help nobody. Ef you put his 
heart in a turnip seed, it would leave room to 
rattle — it ’s that little. I wouldn ’t go in his 
house — not to save his life, or your’n or mine.” 

“But why—” 

What Page might have asked and Jimps 
might have told was cut short. Sharp lightning 
rent the sky. Page screamed and cowered 
against the door; before she could raise her 
hand to knock, a gust of wind dashed it open. 

What a forlorn, miserable place ! The room 
had not the squalor and bareness of the Poole 
cabin. Indeed, it had once been well fitted up 


200 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


and furnished ; but now everything was dismal 
and dirty and wretched. Soiled rags of cur- 
tains hung askew at the windows and fluttered 
in the rain that pelted through the openings. 
Two or three broken chairs were flung in a 
corner. There was a fine old walnut table in 
the middle of the room. On it were an over- 
turned lantern, pipes dribbling stale tobacco, 
books dropped pell-mell, a litter of dusty papers 
and empty tobacco-bags. On the walls, fes- 
tooned with dirty cobwebs, were old fishing- 
tackle, a riding-crop, and an English pigskin 
saddle. 

The cloud closing down upon the hollow made 
the room a part of its gray gloom. One could 
fancy that the place had never known sunshine, 
that it was in — was itself — the heart of a never- 
lifting cloud. 

As Page stood on the threshold, the door of 
a shed-room opened and a man appeared who 
fitted the room as a picture fits its frame. He 
also was forlorn and dreary. 

As years go, he was just beyond his youth — 
in the middle thirties, perhaps — but he was 
thin and haggard like an old man who has lived 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


201 


out his sorry life and left it behind. His un- 
trimmed brown hair, already touched with 
gray, straggled from under a torn felt hat. 
He had a ragged brownish beard, large rest- 
less blue eyes, a finely cut nose with deep lines 
running from it to the corners of his drooping, 
weak mouth. It was the face of an unhappy, 
a miserable man; but, though he confronted 
Page with a scowl, she knew instinctively that 
he was not cruel, nor even unkind. 

“I beg your pardon — ” she began. 

At the greeting of courtesy, the man mechani- 
cally put up his hand to remove his torn hat. 
Then his face darkened and he said harshly, 
4 ‘What do you mean by forcing your way into 
my house ?” 

“The wind opened the door,” Page said. “I 
was about to knock. I wanted to get out of 
the storm, and to ask you — Oh!” She cried 
out, and put her hands over her eyes, as the 
lightning flashed vividly. “I am so afraid of 
a storm ! May n’t I come in till it ’s over ? ” 

“If you must.” The man gave a grudging 
permission. He moved a book from a rickety 
chair. “Sit down.” 


202 WHISTLING JIMPS 

He was turning away, as if to go back to the 
shed-room. 

“It isn’t only the storm,” Page cried, des- 
perately, stopping him. ‘ i There ’s a poor child. 
Won’t you help — ” 

“No,” he interrupted. 

“But this poor little Brat — oh ! he ’s so miser- 
able-looking,” pleaded Page. “Those Pooles, 
Bill and Marthy, who live in the hollow above 
you, brought him from the poorhouse. They 
keep him shut up in that horrible cabin. You 
wouldn’t treat a dog that way. He will die 
if he stays there. Won’t you — ” 

“No.” His voice rose harshly above the 
pouring and crashing of the storm. “No.” 

“But it ’s so terrible to keep a child shut up 
like that. He is — ” 

“It ’s none of my business,” Mr. Shering- 
ham broke in again; “and I can’t see that it ’s 
any of your business.” 

“But the Pooles have no right to the child,” 
Page insisted. “Won’t you do something — 
help get him away and put him where he will be 
taken care of ? ” 

“ No, ” he repeated sternly. “ I let everybody 


WHISTLING JIMPS 203 

alone. And I want to be let alone myself, here 
in my God-forsaken hole.” 

“Oh! but— but — ” Page made a helpless, 
protesting murmur. 

As the man gazed past her toward the 
gloomy, storm-swept mountain, he saw Jimps, 
and said ungraciously: “She ’s here. You may 
as well come in.” 

Page was startled by the face that Jimps 
turned toward them. His eyes were blazing 
and his lips were writhing. 

“I wouldn ’t step in yore door, not to save 
yore life I wouldn’t,” he said slowly and ven- 
omously. 

i 1 Why, Jimps ! ’ ’ exclaimed Page. 

She looked at Mr. Sheringham, who merely 
shrugged his shoulders and was turning con- 
temptuously away. 

Jimps spoke again. It was as if the flood- 
gates were down now, and his passion had to 
rush forth. “Meanest vilyan unhung! You — 
you — ” He spit out epithets and oaths. 

Mr. Sheringham ’s look of surprise changed 
to one of wrath. He raised his fist and started 
toward the boy. 


204 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“You impudent dog! Wlio are you? And 
what — ” 

Jimps did not move. 

“My mammy was Minta Bane. Nance Bane 
was her sister.’ ’ 

Page uttered an exclamation. Nance Bane, 
Mr. Sheringham’s wife, the mother of the 
drowned child — Nance Bane was Jimps Farlan’s 
aunt! Page stared at Jimps a minute, and 
then turned toward Mr. Sheringham. 

The man’s face had blanched and was quiver- 
ing. He looked as if he were about to crumple 
together and fall. Then he caught hold of the 
table, and stood, stiff and rigid. He did not 
speak to Jimps, nor look at him. The miser- 
able, haunted eyes were fixed on the distance, 
as if gazing at some poignant, unescapable 
vision. 

“I would have given my life — my life — ” he 
muttered, clutching at his throat as if he were 
choking. 

Jimp’s hard voice cut in : “Stay thar, Page, 
ef you ’re a mind to. I ’m gone. ’ ’ 

He turned and walked down the trail. 

The storm had passed as suddenly as it had 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


205 


come. The thunder was rumbling in the dis- 
tance. The rain, touched to silver by the sun- 
shine, was coming now in a gentle shower. 

Page started to follow Jimps ; then she paused 
and glanced at Mr. Sheringham. He was look- 
ing out of the door, gazing at the mountains 
as a wrecked man clinging to a drifting spar 
might gaze at the sea that had taken from him 
all except life. 

How could she go — leave him alone in his 
misery without one friendly word? But what 
was there to say? She went to the door, and 
then turned back and held out her hand. He 
did not touch it, did not seem to see it. 

“ Good-by,’ ’ she said timidly. “I ’m — I ’m 
sorry; with all my heart.’ ’ 

And then she ran down the path after Jimps. 

With clenched fists and scowling brow, the 
boy had hurried away from the cabin. At first 
he saw nothing of the beauty of the shining 
woodland, but by degrees and unconsciously it 
penetrated him. His hands relaxed and his 
brow cleared. He walked slowly, breathing in 
the flavor and brightness of the afternoon. 

Then, as clear and sweet as the wood-god’s 


206 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


pipe, there came through the forest the song 
of the thrush. As soon might faun disregard 
the flute of Pan as Jimps pass heedless of that 
call. He stopped and answered it with notes 
as sweet and clear as its own. The song came 
nearer. The shy forest creature flitted forth, 
perched on a twig, and fixed its bright eyes 
on Jimps ’s face. 

But, before he could take a step toward it, 
its song ceased and it flew away. Page, run- 
ning down the trail, had frightened it. 

‘ ‘ Jimps! Jimps !” she called. “I thought 
I ’d never catch up with you.” 

“I wisht you hadn’t,” he said, with a scowl. 
“You skeered my thrush. You made it flew 
away. I ’m al’ays gittin’ nigh him, an’ ’fore 
I can friend him he ’s skeered off.” 

“I ’m sorry,” said Page. 

“You ’re always sorry when it don’t do no 
good,” Jimps responded ungraciously. 

“Well,” Page said sharply, “you ought not 
to have left me to come on alone.” 

“Huh! I go when an’ whar I choose, ’thout 
botherin’ ’bout folks. An’ you had no business 
draggin’ me to old Shearam’s.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


207 


Page was about to answer angrily; but just 
then the distant notes of the wood-thrush 
floated through the evening air, and Jimps 
stood on tiptoe leaning forward, as if to start 
in quest of it. She laid her hand on his arm. 

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “ Please don’t 
leave me alone. And I want to ask you — 
Jimps, I didn’t know that child — Mrs. Sibold 
told me about its being drowned in Falling 
Water — was kin to you.” 

“Uh, yes! Grief was mammy’s sister’s 
child,” said Jimps. 

“ Grief! Was that the dear baby you told 
me about, the one you took into the woods and 
to the Jewel-Box?” 

“Course,” he answered. “When Aunt 
Nance runned ’way an’ left old Shearam, she 
took his name off ’n her baby. She say he 
wa ’ n ’t Griffin Shearam no more ; he was her 
child, named Grief — Grief Bane.” 

“And he was drowned? Poor little thing!” 

“Yes. We-all was at the store, an’ he 
slipped out an’ went down to the creek. Uh, it 
was a-roarin’ an’ a-ragin’! Mammy see him 
jest as he tumbled in, an’ she let out a yell. 


208 


WHISTLING JIMPS 

We-all went a-flyin,’ but, lawzee! the water had 
him, an’ hit swept him on like a piece o’ drift- 
wood over Little Falls. We-all run down- 
stream, hopin’ to git him whar the current 
slowed. But he was gone over Crystal Falls 
in that deep hole whar things go flood-times an’ 
don’t come out.” 

“How terrible!” said Page. 

“His pretty yaller head!” Jimps sighed. 
“Well, here you are, back at the flat.” 

‘ ‘ And there ’s Mrs. Sibold on the porch, look- 
ing for me,” said Page. She waved her hand 
and called: “I ’m coming. I ’m coming right 
away. ’ ’ 

But still she lingered. 

“Jimps,” she said, “after all, we didn’t 
have any right to take Brat. And certainly we 
didn’t know what to do with him. He 
would n ’t have liked being in that old sawmill, 
alone, nights and storm times too. And we 
couldn’t have kept him there forever. I’ve 
heard about a society whose business is to take 
care of children. I ’m going to write to father 
and ask about it and how to get it to help Brat. 
But,” she sighed, “that ’ll take so long!” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 209 

“I bet Dr. Wayne ’ll know,” said Jimps. 
“He knows ev’ything.” 

“Oh! Dr. Wayne at Manson,” said Page, 
in sudden excitement. “Father says he ’s a 
Wonderful man and a fine doctor.” 

“Ef any folks in the mountains is sick or 
sorry, they send for Dr. Wayne,” said Jimps. 
‘ ‘ He holps ’em all, but specially chillen. ’T was 
him got the little gal from that mean Dell 
Sawyer and give it to good old Mrs. Epling.” 

‘ ‘ He ’ s the very man ! ’ ’ exclaimed Page. 
“I ’ll ask Mrs. Sibold to take me to Manson to 
see him to-morrow.” 

She said good-by to Jimps, and walked 
thoughtfully toward the shanty. 

“No!” she said to herself, very decidedly. 
“Mr. Sheringham is n’t a mean man. He seems 
— seems shut up in himself, like a prison. Be- 
cause his own son is dead, he ought to feel 
sorrier for other children and want to help 
Brat. I wish something could make him do it; 
make him want to do it, I mean. I wonder if 
it can?” 


CHAPTER X 


M RS. SIBOLD,” Page said suddenly. “I 
want to go to Manson to-morrow.” 

The three of them — Mr. Sibold with his pipe, 
Mrs. Sibold with her knitting, Page “with an 
unopened book — were sitting on the porch. 
The sun had set. The western sky was a lucid, 
serene, glowing pale gold that filled the air 
with a clear radiance and made itself felt rather 
as an inspiring moral quality than as mere 
beauty of color. 

“I want, please, to go to Manson,” Page re- 
peated. 

‘ 4 Well,” Mrs. Sibold responded placidly, “we 
can take the roan mare and drive down there. 
Can’t we, Jefsey?” 

“Of course, if that ’s what Page is wanting. 
But I thought you were going with me to the 
sawmill; eh, Page!” 

“I can’t wait another day to do something 
for that child, poor Brat,” Page said vehe- 
210 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


211 


mently. “It ’s too terrible for him to be shut 
up in that black-dark cabin. I want to go to Dr. 
Wayne and see if he can’t get him away from 
those awful Pooles.” i 

Mr. Sibold ’s soft, putty-colored face went 
together in wrinkles. 

4 4 Heaven save us ! It 11 make Pooles mad 
to bother them about that child, and they 
might pay back with an ill turn to us. You 
leave them be, my dear.” 

44 I ’m awfully afraid of the Pooles,” Page 
confessed. 4 4 But, Mr. Sibold, we can’t let a 
wicked, cruel thing like this go on just because 
we ’re afraid for ourselves. We ’ve got to do 
something to make things better.” 

44 I don’t mix in what ain’t my business,” 
said Mr. Sibold. 44 I ain’t going to stir up ill 
will, to put a torch to my goods or a bullet 
through my head. Uncle Sam ’s trusting me to 
look after his post-office, and I ’ve got to take 
care of myself. Come to think of it, Lotta, I 
don’t see how you can get to Manson to-morrow. 
I ’ve got to go to the sawmill, and you need be 
here to mind the store.” 

4 4 But you shut it up whenever you want to. 


212 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


You did yesterday; and you have done it times 
and times before,” urged Page. 

“I don’t see how you can go,” said Mr. Si- 
bold. 

His wife chimed in: “ I don’t see as we can, 
Pagie. I ’ll take you gallivantin’ to the lake, 
or anywhere you choose, to-morrow evening.” 

But Page was intent on her plan. The Si- 
bolds finally yielded to her coaxings and agreed 
to let her take the roan mare and the buggy and 
go to Manson with Jimps Farlan as her escort. 
She had to promise, however, that she would 
ask Dr. Wayne to take entire charge of the 
matter and not to mention her name or the Si- 
holds’. 

The next morning she started on her journey* 
and about noon she halted the rickety old ’buggy 
at Dr. Wayne’s door. 

The doctor was not at home, but his wife came 
out with a face that was in itself a welcome. 
Mrs. Wayne was a plump, pretty little woman 
with merry dark eyes, a mass of curly dark 
hair, and dimples in her rosy cheeks. She had 
an adorable lisp, too slight for the definiteness 
of print, that made Page think she kissed her 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


213 


words before she let them go. Two lovely chil- 
dren, a girl of six and a three-year-old boy, 
were clinging to her skirts. 

Mrs. Wayne offered Page the hospitality of 
the shady porch and a cool drink and a fan- 
all welcome, for the valley was oppressive after 
the sweet high air of the monntain-top. 

Jimps refused to come indoors, and threw 
himself down under a tree. 

“Lawzee! I ’m a-sweatin’!” he exclaimed. 

The Wayne’s noble collie looked disdain- 
fully at the ragged, dirty boy and started to- 
ward him, bristling and growling. But five 
minutes later boy and dog were playing to- 
gether in the friendliest fashion, while Page 
was pouring out her tale to Mrs. Wayne. 

‘ ‘ Indeed my husband will help you, ’ 9 said the 
little lady. “He is always glad to help a 
child. He says you can’t do much with the 
older people, but we must look out for the chil- 
dren and give them a chance.” 

“The Sibolds are so good and so kind. I 
don’t see how they can be so — so not willing to 
help,” said Page. 

“Many people are that way,” answered Mrs. 


214 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Wayne. ‘ ‘ They say it is none of their business. 
And, indeed, it is difficult, sometimes dangerous, 
to get a child from a place like that. People 
like the Pooles will shoot you on the spur of the 
minute; or they will bum your house or kill 
your horse or cow — or you — a year later. You 
never know what they will do, or when. So the 
Sibolds and others are afraid.” 

“But Dr. Wayne isn't?” 

“ Oh ! J oseph ! ' ' The lisping kiss lingered on 
the name. “If Joseph thinks he ought to do a 
thing, that settles it. And he feels it 's his duty 
to work with the Home Society. You see, it 
has a legal right to take children from places 
where they are brought up in ignorance and 
crime. But it can not do things offhand, by it- 
self. It must work through and with local law 
officers, and it needs the financial and moral sup- 
port of good citizens. Joseph helps it because 
he would like to see every child as sheltered and 
well-cared-for as his own.” She glanced 
fondly toward her children, and then exclaimed 
in surprise: “Why, my darlings! Laura! 
Joey! What are you doing?” 

She had to call again before she received an 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


215 


answer from the children who were hanging 
over Jimps, w'atching him with eager interest. 

Then J oey explained : 4 4 Thith boy is catching 
honey-beeth. He holdth them in hith handth. ’ ’ 

“They say ‘Buzz! buzz! buzz!’ and then he 
lets them go,” added Laura. 

“Bees! 0 my dears! Come away. They’ll 
sting you,” cried Mrs. Wayne. 

‘ ‘ Oh, no ! ” Page assured her. ‘ ‘ Nothing ever 
hurts Jimps. And he ’ll take care of Laura 
and Joey.” 

Mrs. Wayne gave uneasy glances at the trio 
— or quartet, for Sandy was lying with his muz- 
zle on Jimps ’s shoulder; then she turned back 
to Page and answered her questions about the 
Home Society. 

“But, Mrs. Wayne,” Page said presently, 
“that society can’t take all the children. Why, 
there are the Farlans — Jimps and Minta and 
Nance and Looey and Sam and Danny. You 
can’t take all the children of all these families 
and get them adopted or put in asylums, can 
you? And if you could, how terribly they 
would miss their mountains ! ’ ’ She glanced at 
Jimps. 


216 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“No,” Mrs. Wayne said, and then she re- 
peated emphatically: “No. We must bring 
help to the homes; *we must train and educate 
the children who, after all, are the missionaries 
that can do most with the fathers and mothers. 
Joseph says — Oh! there he comes.” 

Dr. Wayne was a clever, alert, overworked 
man with kind eyes and a firm, fearless mouth. 
His weariness and depression dropped away 
when his wife went to meet him and the chil- 
dren ran, with cries of “Fardy! Fardy!” to 
hug his legs and cling to his hands. 

His wife explained Page's errand, and he 
sat down, with Laura and Joey on his knees, 
and listened with interest to her story. 

“Thank you for coming to me,” he said 
heartily. “We 'll take the matter up at once 
with the proper authorities. I am glad you are 
getting the help we need in this work.” 

“As soon as I heard about you, I knew you 
were the person to come to,” said Page. 

Dr. Wayne laughed. “I don’t mean my- 
self,” he said. “The interest and the sense of 
responsibility of the people of a community 
must be aroused if the Home Society is to 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


217 


carry on its rescue work efficiently. Now, you 
seem to have enlisted the sympathy and help 
of a mountain neighbor.” He pointed to 
Jimps Farlan-. 

“Oh! Jimps does want to help Brat now,” 
Page replied, “but it is n’t because I persuaded 
him. He did n ’t pay a particle of attention to 
anything I said. He went with me yesterday, 
not because he pitied Brat, but because he 
wanted to spite the Pooles. But he worked 
pretty hard to give the child some things we 
carried to it. He stayed there after I ran 
away, and he got hurt. Now he ’s keen to help 
Brat.” 

“That is the way people are drawn into 
widening circles of human relationships, by do- 
ing and suffering for others,” said Dr. Wayne. 
“The more you help, the more you want to 
help.” 

“That certainly is the way with Jimps,” 
agreed Page. 

“It is the way with us all,” said Dr. Wayne. 
“Well, you have come at the right time. We 
are expecting Mr. Truitt, the officer of the 
Hom’e Society, to carry some children from the 


218 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


county poorhouse to the society headquarters 
next week. We will make investigations 'about 
this boy and try to get him in time to go with 
the others. If the child were the Pooles , very 
own, the Home Society could take him from con- 
finement in that den. But since the mother left 
him at the poorhouse and these people .took him 
from the county authorities, the case is simpler. 
I will telephone now to the poorhouse super- 
intendent. When did the Pooles get the 
child ? 1 9 

Page put the question to Jimps. 

“Sure I know,” he said. “Bill an’ Marthy 
was to the porehouse the winter Looey was a 
baby. Brat ’s older ’n he*r.” 

“How old is she now?” asked Dr. Wayne. 

“Thar ’s Sam next, an’ he ’s a good-size 
chap; he was our baby ’long with Grief. An’ 
then thar ’s Danny, an’ this is the second 
huckle-berryin ’ since he was borned.” 

Dr. Wayne was familiar with this mountain 
method of counting ages. 

“That makes the child — let me see — about 
eight years old. And what is his name?” 
“Brat.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 219 

“That isn’t any name,” said Dr. Wayne; 
“not any more than ‘Baby’ or ‘Boy.’ ” 

“That ’s all the name he ’s got,” replied 
Jimps. “He ’s Janey Walker’s Brat.” 

“We ’ll see what we can find out,” said Dr. 
Wayne. 

He went to the telephone and questioned the 
superintendent of the county poorhouse. The 
man said that a woman named Janey Walker 
had been there a few years before; she went 
away and left her baby. Bill and Marthy 
Poole were there at the same time, and they 
might have carried the child home with them. 
He believed they did. No, he had not made 
any effort to get it back; there were enough 
squalling babies around the place. The Pooles 
might not be proper persons to rear it, he ad- 
mitted in answer to Dr. Wayne’s rebuke, but 
there was no use bothering about a child like 
that. 

“ ‘No use bothering’!” the doctor said 
wrathfully. “People ‘are afraid of stirring 
up bad blood’ and ‘don’t want to get mixed up 
in a quarrel.’ And so, instead of helping the 
world go on to better things, they are stumbling 


220 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


stones in its way.” He turned back to the 
telephone. ‘ ‘ What ’s that I” He listened a 
while, made a few comments, and hung up the 
receiver. 

“Here ’s the kind of thing we come across 
over and over again,” he said. “The Poole 
woman has been applying to the superintend- 
ent, off and on, for help in supporting the child 
that she took. Two or three years ago, she 
said the child was sick and asked for money to 
buy medicine. Instead of money he gave her 
an order for the medicine, which she tried to 
trade at the drug-store for tobacco. A little 
later she told him the child was dead and she 
wanted money to buy a coffin. And that fall 
she came back and begged for clothes for him, 
brazenly acknowledging that the tale about 
his death was just a ruse to get money ! 
Well, we have enough information to justify 
our taking action. I am going to New 
Canaan,” — the county town, three miles away, 
— “and I ’ll see Superintendent Hinton and 
we ’ll get a warrant sworn out and instruct the 
sheriff to ride over and get the child to-morrow 
or next day.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


221 


Page breathed a sigh of relief. “So that ’s 
settled. Brat will be taken away from those 
brutes. ,, 

“Yes. I am sure the county authorities will 
act. We ’ll put their duty under their noses 
where they can’t help seeing it.” 

“Oh! I hope,” Page said fervently, “the 
Home Society people will be good to the poor 
little fellow.” 

“They will.” 

“They ’ll not get out of patience with him 
because he is shy and scary and — queer?” 

“They are very patient and wise,” the doc- 
tor answered. “And as soon as possible 
they ’ll find him a good home. Look here!” 
He turned to Jimps. “Do you know whether 
that child ’s been hurt; had a bad blow?” 

“Pooles is mean enough to beat him up,” 
the boy said confidently. 

“H’m!” The doctor remembered that 
Jimps was a Farlan, and took this statement 
with many grains of salt. “Well, Miss Page, 
you may be sure the Home Society people will 
do all that ’s possible for him. I think from 
what you say that he needs medical treatment, 


222 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


perhaps an operation. Ah! how those famous 
busy doctors give their time and their best 
skill to these little waifs ! I wish you could meet 
Mr. Truitt, who will have charge of the child. 
Can’t you come back on Tuesday, when he will 
be here?” 

“I don’t know,” Page said doubtfully. 
“I ’d love to.” 

6 i Well, do. Get the mail rider to bring you 
down with him in the morning and I ’ll take 
you back in the afternoon. ’ ’ 

“Oh! surely I can do that,” she said. 
“Thank you, Dr. Wayne. Oh! I am so glad, 
so glad Brat ’s going to be taken from that 
awful place.” 

Having thus arranged matters, Page and 
Jimps drove up the mountain. But while they 
were rejoicing that the child would soon be res- 
cued, the Pooles, although ignorant of the 
plan, were taking steps to render its fulfilment 
impossible. 

The huckleberry crop in Rocky Hollow was 
very scant that year, and Bill and Marthy 
Poole resolved to go to Bent Mountain, where 
berries were said to be plentiful, and pick and 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


223 


dry a supply for winter use. The trip was to 
be a prolonged picnic ; they would camp out and 
spend a week or ten days getting berries. Of 
course they would take Brat with them; and 
Marthy’s sister, Dell Martin, and her two chil- 
dren, ten-year-old Gabe and Molly who was 
thirteen, were to join the party. 

The Pooles were still mystified about the in- 
vasion of their cabin. It must have been, they 
said to themselves, some trick of revenue of- 
ficers; no one wanted Brat. They said this 
over and over, with a queer sort of uneasiness. 
Now they were glad to leave home for a while 
and give things a chance to ‘ ‘ settle down. ’ ’ 

Their preparations for the berrying expedi- 
tion were soon made. A frying-pan, a tin 
bucket, a small bag of meal, a piece of meat, and 
some coffee and salt were dumped into a bag 
that Marthy slung over her shoulder. Bill put 
a package of tobacco into his pocket, took his 
gun, and whistled to his dog. The party went 
up Rocky Hollow along a path that came out on 
the road which led to Bent Mountain. 

And so, on Monday morning, when the sheriff 
and his deputy went to the Poole cabin, they 


224 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


found it empty. Sheriff Price would have been 
quite willing to let the Pooles — like Boozer Sam 
Sawyer and Pappy Gooch — go scot-free; but 
Dr. Wayne and the Home Society were behind 
this quest for the child, and the sheriff knew 
from experience that they would not give up 
until Brat was rescued. So he rode back to 
Butterfly Flat, and there he met the mail rider, 
who on his rural routes takes the place of the 
old town crier. The sheriff knew that Mr. Smith 
could probably give information about the 
Pooles, but that more than probably he would 
not give it if it were inquired for directly and 
officially; few mountaineers are willing to give 
information against any one who has not in- 
jured them personally. 

So Mr. Price hailed the mail rider jovially: 
“Hey, Smith! How ’s times! An’ who Ve 
you seen this mornin , you like better ’n yore- 
self !” 

Mr. Smith guffawed. “Nobody. I ain’t met 
nobody a-tall but Mr. Charles seekin’ sawmill 
hands, an’ Pooles an’ Martins goin’ huckleber- 
ryin’. You lookin’ for anybody!” 

“Uh, I ’m just ridin’ round for my health! 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


225 


I ’ve heard say the berry crop is short this 
year, an’ folks have to go a far way to find 
’em.” 

4 4 Yes. Pooles was goin’ to Bent Mountain. 
I told ’em a passel o’ folks was thar all last 
week. So they ’lowed they ’d go to Cloyd.” 

“You don’t say! Cloyd County over in West 
Virginia! What ’s the world cornin’ to, when 
folks ’s got to go eight miles an’ out thar own 
State for a turn o’ huckleberries? Well, I 
must be goin ’. ’ ’ 

Hoping to overtake the Pooles, the officers 
rode rapidly ; but when they came to Lost Creek 
they saw the huckleberrying party climbing 
the hill on the other side of the stream. That 
was in West Virginia, and of course out of their 
jurisdiction. 

Jimps had followed gleefully, to see the res- 
cue of the child and the discomfiture of his ene- 
mies; now he went back crestfallen to inform 
Page that the Pooles had escaped. 

She was greatly disappointed and distressed. 
If Brat were not at Manson when Mr. Truitt 
came, there might be delay and difficulty in get- 
ting him to the Home Society. The Pooles 


226 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


might find out the plan and prevent the rescue. 

“Sure,” said Jimps. He was silent a min- 
ute. “ ’S all right for Dr. Wayne to git him,” 
he said, with a frown; “but what business is 
outsiders got to come here an’ take folks?” 

“The Home Society takes a child for its own 
good, to give it a home and a living chance,” 
Page replied. “You know the Pooles ought 
not to have Brat.” 

“Naw. He don’t belong to them. But I 
wisht we could git him, ’stead o’ them outside 
strangers.” 

“But, Jimps, even if we had a right to take 
the child, we could n ’t keep him always in a pen 
at that old sawmill.” 

“I wisht the logs wa’ n’t so fur apart at our 
house,” said Jimps. “I wisht we could have 
him thar, to live with us.” He gave a sudden 
little laugh. “Ain’t it funny? That little fool 
minds me o ’ Grief. ’ ’ 

“Of Grief!” exclaimed Page. 

“It ’s when I don’t see him; when I look at 
him an’ then away,” Jimps said, with a frown. 

“But Grief was very different; and much 
younger, was n’t he?” asked Page. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


227 


“Um-h’m. Pooles brung Brat from the 
porehouse Tore Aunt Nance come home. Looey 
was our baby then. An’ Grief was of a age 
with Sam. I reckon/ ’ Jimps tried to puzzle 
out the matter, “it ’s ’cause they ’re so 
diff ’rent I think o ’ Grief. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” Page agreed thoughtfully. “That ’s 
why this poor, forlorn, pitiful little fellow 
makes you think of that happy, lovely child. 
Oh! if only we could get him! I do wish we 
knew where the Pooles are and how long they 
are going to stay.” 

“I c’n follow ’em an’ fox round an’ find out 
what they ’re goin’ to do/’ said Jimps. “I ’d 
sort o’ like to see Brat. An’ it ’s a mighty 
good outdoors mornin’.” 

It was indeed a lovely morning; not a spar- 
kling jewel of a day, but fair and serene, like 
one of a string of pearls — the sort of weather 
that early September often gives to the Vir- 
ginia mountains. 

Jimps started forth blithely, coursing his 
way to the north-west through the forest so as 
to come out at Lost Creek Ford, where the sher- 
iff had seen the Pooles. With only eight or ten 


228 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


miles to travel and with the day before him, 
there was no need for haste. 

He strolled along, humming quaint old tunes 
and filling the forgotten places with melodious 
murmurs. He stopped to feast on wild grapes, 
and he crushed bunches in his fingers, then 
waved his hands to spread abroad their wild- 
wood aroma. He paused to watch, with a com- 
radely smile, the journeyings of a chipmunk. 
He darted along, the very spirit of mirth, leav- 
ing behind him a trail of rippling laughter; he 
ran races with his shadow; he caught birch or 
hemlock boughs and took flying leaps, skim- 
ming along half in the air, as if he were some- 
thing more than an earth-bound creature. 

He had often gone lightly and gaily through 
the woods, but never before had he frolicked 
along so blissfully. This was no aimless merry 
wandering; he had a goal, and that goal was 
the welfare of a helpless child. 

After a while Jimps heard a pleasant mur- 
mur, and presently he came to a rivulet that 
threaded its way through the woodland, loiter- 
ing in pools, rippling over rapids, plashing 
over tiny falls. He paused to dabble his feet 


WHISTLING JIMPS 229 

in the stream, and a junco hopped near him, 
uttering plaintive cries. 

4 ‘ You little f ool ! ” laughed Jimps. “Iwa’n’t 
thinkin’ ’bout yore nest, an’ here you come 
tellin’ me it ’s nigh.” 

He looked around and found it, on a mossy 
bank behind a tiny hemlock. There were four 
birdlings in it, and he teased them for a while 
by putting his finger-tip on their gaping beaks ; 
and then he amused himself by feeding them 
with insects and berries. At first the mother 
bird flitted around, chirruping wildly and mak- 
ing frenzied efforts to distract him; but pres- 
ently she ceased her cries and alighted on a 
near-by twig. Jimps nodded at her. 

“I ’ll make you come nigher, little mammy,” 
he said. “I mought as well rest a while ’fore I 
git tired. Thar ain’t no hurry.” 

He stretched himself flat on the ground, with 
his right hand near the nest. The junco hopped 
forward, then back two or three times; but 
every time she came nearer and stood her 
ground more boldly. At last she gave a little 
flirting jump, as if she would pass Jimps ’s hand 
and enter her nest. He moved his hand quickly, 


230 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


and she alighted on his thumb, and stood there 
trembling, with her wings half-raised to flit 
away. Jimps chirruped gently, and she stood 
still, with her head on one side and her beadlike 
eyes fixed on his face. He chirped again. She 
gave an answering cheep ! and he put up his 
hand and stroked her plumage. 

“Ef Brat was here,” he murmured, “ I could 
git him to stop bein’ skeered.” 

There was a little silence. A squirrel, com- 
ing to drink at the stream, ran unaffrighted 
across Jimps ’s outstretched arm and went off, 
chattering to its mate. The forest was very 
wide and sweet and still. An open space in 
the green-gold chestnut foliage showed the sky, 
deep blue, with lazy little clouds loitering about 
or melting in the misty depths. Breezes woke 
and whispered, and then fell asleep. 

From afar there came the high, sweet note 
of the wood-thrush. 

And then there came another sound, a sinis- 
ter and ominous sound, the slow, low rattling 
of a crawling rattlesnake. Jimps sprang up, 
trembling and blanched with fear. The yel- 
low, diamond-patterned body of the reptile glit- 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


231 


tered in a patch of sunlight hardly four feet 
away. The junco uttered a faint chirp and 
hopped to one side, to lure away the snake 
which was advancing toward her nest. It 
stopped. It lay stretched at full length, with 
its head lifted and waving gently to and fro, 
and its eyes fixed on the bird. She made as 
if she would flutter away, but her raised wings 
flopped helplessly to her sides. She uttered a 
faint cheep! cheep! and stood still. There was 
a quick forward flash; the cruel jaws opened 
and then closed, destroying what only a mo- 
ment before had been a swift flight, a sweet 
song, a loving mother heart. 

Jimps stood as pale as a corpse, and shiver- 
ing with fear and loathing, while the deadly 
work went on. It was not until the snake 
stretched itself on the sunny rock where he had 
just been playing with the bird that he seemed 
able to withdraw his fascinated, terrified eyes. 
Then he groped down, picked up a stone, and 
threw it, but without his usual sure skill; it 
clattered harmlessly on the rock beside the 
snake which coiled and struck viciously. 

At the sound of its menacing rattle, Jimps 


232 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


shuddered violently and took two or three 
stumbling steps. 

Having, it seemed, recovered his lost power 
of motion, he went away, glancing over his 
shoulder every minute or two to make sure that 
he was not pursued. 

“I hate rattlers!” he said vehemently. 
“Ugh! I hate ’em! They spile the world!” 

He went far through the woods before the 
color came back to his face and he again walked 
swiftly and surely. He came to the highway, 
and followed it a while ; then he turned off on a 
right-hand road that led presently to a ford. 

He crossed Lost Creek and entered a fertile, 
narrow valley. Before him lay orchard and 
meadow-land, cultivated fields, and a little 
farm-house. Jimps paused and looked long- 
ingly at the door of a whitewashed spring-house 
that was fastened only by a string looped over 
a nail; but he passed it without helping him- 
self to its stores of butter and milk, and went 
on toward the dwelling. 

The path led to a little back porch festooned 
with hop-vines. Sitting on the porch and 
thumping away at an old-fashioned churn was 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


233 


a stout, motherly-looking woman in a blue-and- 
white gingham dress. As she jerked the churn 
dasher up and down, she sang zealously : 

“Oh! what ship is this that will take us all home? 

Oh, glory hallelujah! 

’T is the old ship of Zion, hallelujah! 

’T is the old ship of Zion, hallelujah ! ’ ’ 

The thin, nasal voice soared high and the 
dasher went up to the top and down to the 
bottom of the churn: 

“Do you think she will be able to take us all home? 

Oh, glory hallelujah ! 

Yes, I know she will be able, hallelujah! 

Yes, I know she will be able, hallelujah! 

“She has landed many thousands and will land as 
many more, 

Oh, glory hallelujah! 

She has landed them in heaven, hallelujah ! 

She has landed them in heaven, hallelujah !” 

Jimps gave a grunt of greeting, and the 
woman started and looked around. 

‘ ‘ Uh, boy ! you skeered me , 9 f she said, ‘ ‘ com- 


234 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


in’ up so still an’ mouselike. Who are you? 
You want to see Mr. Rowzey? He won ’t be 
home till supper- time. ’ ’ 

4 ‘Did some huckleberriers come this way this 
mornin’?” asked Jimps. 

“Yes. My -old man seen ’em,” answered 
Mrs. Rowzey. “They was aimin’ to go over 
on Mill Mountain.” 

“Whar ’s that?” 

“They ain’t gone thar,” said the woman. 
“Tom told ’em a gang o’ folks camped thar last 
week an’ didn’t leave a berry. They axed 
whar berries was round here, an’ Tom told ’em, 
jokin’-like, he didn’t know no place but Rattle- 
snake Mountain. An’ the man cussed an’ said 
he ’d go thar. ’ ’ 

“To Rattlesnake Mountain!” gasped Jimps. 

The fame and the fear of that reptile-in- 
fested place had gone abroad through all the 
surrounding country. 

Mrs. Rowzey nodded. “Ain’t they the 
fools?” she said. “Most folks would do ’thout 
huckleberries all thar lives ruther ’n go thar. ’ ’ 

“You reckon that mountain ’s bad as folks 
say?” asked Jimps. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


235 


* ‘ They couldn’t say it was worse ’n ’t is,” 
she answered. “I ain’t nuver been so cravin’ 
for huckleberries that I ’ve been thar. But 
my old man went onct when he was a boy an’ 
experimentin’, an’ he says thar ain’t money in 
the world to tempt him to go back. The moun- 
tain — it ’s jest a helter-skelter mess o’ rocks 
overgrowed with scrub-oak and huckleberries — 
it ’s alive with rattlers, yellow and black, all 
sizes from little shiny ones to big old rusty fel- 
lows. They crawl round in them berry-bushes 
an’ lay out sunnin’ on them rocks. An’ ef 
you go thar, they stand up an’ fight you like 
a man. ’ ’ 

Jimps’s face grew white and his eyes wide 
with terror. 

“Them folks, them Pooles, sure they ain’t 
sich fools to go thar,” he cried desperately. 

“They did so. My old man seen them go 
’cross the mountain. They was aimin’ to camp 
in a old cabin on the fur side. Tom said the 
man in the gang was Bill Poole.” 

“Yes,” Jimps answered faintly. 

“H’m! Them Pooles is owdacious folks. 
My daddy, Gabriel Reece he was, was in the 


236 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


war they call the Civilized War with BilPs 
daddy,* * Mrs. Rowzey gossiped along comfort- 
ably. “I *ve heared daddy say, in the fightin* 
at Petersburg, they was in a ditch with a apple- 
tree in front. An* Yankee bullets come so thick 
they whacked oft apples, like a man shakin* the 
tree. Presently daddy heard the cap’n yell, 
‘Go back, you fool!* — an* thar was old Bill 
Poole done got out the ditch an* was fillin’ his 
pockets with apples fast as the bullets cut ’em 
off. That ’s the kind o’ folks them Pooles is; 
no stomach for work, but plenty for victuals, 
an* not af eared o’ nothin*. Is Bill kin of 
your *nf” 

“No.** 

“Well, ef I was you, I wouldn’t follow him 
to no sich place as Rattlesnake Mountain. I *d 
leave my business wait till they come back. 
You don’t look peart noway. You *re real pale 
round the gills. Here ! let me give you a swal- 
low o* fresh buttermilk; I got more *n the pigs 
want. An* I reckon I c’n find you a piece o* 
bread. * * 

Jimps sat down on the step and ate the food, 
but it had little savor. He was thinking of 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


237 


the snake that caught the bird. One snake was 
enough to fill a day and the woods with misery 
and terror. And a whole mountain full of 
them! 

“I bet pore little Brat is skeered ’most to 
death/ ’ he thought; and then he asked, 4 ‘Was 
thar — did they have any chillen along V 9 

“A gal an’ a boy big enough to pick berries, 
an’ a little chap awful peaked an’ pitiful-look- 
ing. ’T was a shame to take him along with 
’em to sich a place. ’ ’ 

Jimps put down the cup and got up slowly. 

“I must be goinV , he said. 

He went down the path, and, stopping at the 
road, looked first at the peaceful chestnut woods 
on the other side of Lost Creek and then at the 
scrubby, rocky heights of Rattlesnake Mountain. 


CHAPTER XI 


J IMPS stood a while at the parting of the 
ways, then he turned back toward the ford. 
“Pore Brat!” he said. “Ef ’twas b’ars or 
bobcats, anything but rattlers, I ’d go thar. But 
rattlers ! Lawzee, naw ! ’ ’ 

And then he tried to put Brat out of his mind. 
He turned into a field and strolled along, run- 
ning his parted fingers through clumps of 
daisies and snipping off the blossoms. He 
swung up into an apple-tree and filled his 
pockets with fruit. A bough struck his cheek 
on the place that had been hurt when he fell at 
the Poole cabin, and he winced and frowned. 

“Drat them Pooles!” he said. “They ’re 
mean folks. An’ lawzee! Brat has a tough 
time, shet up in that hole. I don’t reckon he 
nuver had a big red apple like this.” 

He sprang out of the tree and went his way, 
but more slowly now. Once or twice he stopped 
and looked back. Presently he heard some one 
238 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


239 


approaching, and, not wishing Mr. Rowzey to 
meet him with stolen fruit, he hid behind some 
bushes. But the man was not Mr. Rowzey. 
It was Bill Poole ’s nephew, Gaycy Poole. 

“ Seems like all the Pooles is cornin’ to Rat- 
tlesnake Mountain,” Jimps growled to himself. 
“Wisht the rattlers would bite ’em ev’y one. 
Specially Gaycy. He ’s a tough rascal. I seen 
him onct give his little buddy a back-handed, 
knockdown lick jest for pure meanness. No 
tellin ’ what he ’ll do to Brat. ’ ’ 

Gaycy Poole went swinging up the road, and 
Jimps came from behind the bushes. For a 
moment he stood still; then, very slowly, as if 
something stronger than his unwilling, terrified 
self were compelling him, he turned his back 
to the ford and went up the road, with his face 
toward Rattlesnake Mountain. His lips were 
white and quivering. His breath stopped and 
then came in jerks and gasps. 

“I ’m awful skeered,” he said miserably. 
4 4 But I got to go an’ see ’bout pore little Brat. 
I bet they left him in the shack that old woman 
was tellin’ ’bout, whiles they’re huckleberryin’. 
Ef I c’n git him, I c’n tote him — he ain’t no 


240 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


more weight ’n a bag o ’ leaves — an ’ wade down 
the creek an’ zip through the woods an’ take 
him to Dr. Wayne. But I — I don’t durst go 
thar, with them snakes squirmin' an’ skir- 
mishin’ round!” 

Jimps crouched in a fence-corner and waited 
while Gaycy Poole went to the farm-house. In 
a few minutes the young man came back and 
proceeded briskly toward Rattlesnake Moun- 
tain. Jimps took the path at a cautious dis- 
tance behind him. Thus they went up the little 
valley, crossed the gentle slope of Mill Moun- 
tain, and came to the foot of the rocky, ragged 
knoll beyond it. Gaycy stopped and cut a stout 
stick, and with this he beat the bushes as he 
advanced. 

“An’ he ’s got on boots, too,” said Jimps, 
looking with a frown at his own bare feet. 

He picked up a handful of stones and went 
on, stepping carefully in open places. Some- 
times, indeed, the scrub-oak and huckleberry- 
bushes were so thick that he could not choose 
clear places for his feet. Then, holding his 
breath, he would plunge forward, as one who 
can not swim takes a push into water of 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


241 


unknown depth. Seeing now the ashy pallor 
of his face, his eyes wide and glazed with terror, 
his brow beaded with cold sweat, his breath 
coming in short, irregular gasps through parted 
lips, one would not have known him as the care- 
free, joyous forest creature of the morning. 

At the top of the mountain he paused. To 
his right, in a grassy glade beside a stream, was 
a tumble-down cabin. Far down on the south- 
ern slope, figures were stooping and rising — 
the Pooles and Martins gathering berries. He 
saw Gaycy Poole stop a minute at the cabin 
and then go on toward the berry-pickers. 

Jimps turned toward the cabin. He went 
a little way down the rocky ledge and then came 
to a tangle of scrub-oak. Choosing a place 
where he glimpsed an opening ahead, he plunged 
into the thicket. Suddenly he stopped, par- 
alyzed with terror. The rock before him seemed 
alive with rattlesnakes. Among the broken 
stones there was— it might be six, it might be 
sixty — a mass of squirming creatures; and on 
a flat rock above them one huge reptile lay 
stretched at full length. 

In the second that Jimps stood there, he saw 


242 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


the junco being destroyed, his father sitting 
numb under the “charm,” little Mandy 
screeching away her tortured life. And the 
rattlesnake that did all these horrible things 
was — the reptile lying before him; and he was 
the junco, his father, little Mandy. 

The snake raised its head and waved it gently 
up and down. Jimps felt that if he stood there 
a second longer he should never move again. 
With the courage of desperation, he raised his 
hand and cast a stone. It struck the rattler 
squarely, and sent it writhing to the rocky den 
below, where the others instantly coiled and 
rattled. 

As the snake left the ledge, Jimps’s foot 
touched it— for only a second, to make a flying 
leap into the thicket beyond. On he sped in 
mad terror, feeling as if the ground beneath 
him were squirming and coiling, as if the bushes 
around him were hissing and rattling. He 
came at last to the glade and he dropped down 
on the safe, open ground. 

How long he lay there he did not know. The 
first thing of which he was conscious was a lit- 
tle voice saying: “Pretty! pretty! pretty!” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


243 


Jimps lay still, with his eyes shut. 

“Pretty !” prattled the little voice. 

Jimps sat up and looked dully around him. 
It was indeed a gay, smiling little glade. The 
wild grasses were topped with white and gold 
and lavender, — yarrow, daisies, goldenrod, St.- 
John ’s-wort, bergamot, — and myriads of blue 
and yellow and copper-colored butterflies, like 
winged blossoms, were flitting around in the 
sunshine. A little stream went rippling along- 
side the meadow r at the foot of a chestnut- 
wooded mountain. The only blot on the love- 
liness was the old cabin in the middle of the 
glade, a mere hut, without window or chimney, 
with a broken door propped shut by a pole on 
the outside. 

Jimps gave a little sigh of relief and lay 
down again, soothed by the gay and delicate 
color, the warm sunshine, the wafted freshness 
and fragrance. 

‘ ‘ Pretty ! pretty ! ’ ’ still came the sweet, croon- 
ing voice from inside the cabin. 

At last Jimps got up and crept to the cabin 
and looked between the logs. Brat was sitting 
on the ground — there was no other floor— gaz- 


244 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


ing through a crack at the bright, unfamiliar 
scene outside. 

“Pret — ” The child ’s babbling ceased 
abruptly as a bit of bark came off under 
Jimps ’s hand and fell inside the cabin.. Brat 
looked around and, seeing the figure outside, 
he staggered to the opposite side of the room 
and crouched against a log, with his face hidden 
in his hands. 

“Lawzee! he ’s skeery,” thought Jimps. 
u Ef I grab him to tote him off, he ’ll kick an’ 
squeal, an’ I ’ll git kotch up with. I bet I 
could tame him. Thar ain’t no wild thing I 
can’t friend with, gi’ me time. But thar ain’t 
much time. Come sundown, Pooles ’ll be back. 
An’ I got to find a roundabout way home, fol- 
lowin’ that branch down to Lost Creek. I can’t 
risk goin’ back ’cross that mountain.” He 
shuddered. 

He stood still a minute; then he slipped the 
prop from the door and quietly entered the 
cabin. Without seeming to notice Brat, he sat 
down and began to hum in a low, monotonous 
tone. 

The child started and looked around. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


245 


Jimps sat still, humming softly. Presently 
he took two apples out of his pocket and began 
to eat one. He rolled the other toward Brat, 
and it lay, very red and shiny and tempting, 
in a patch of sunlight half-way between them. 

Brat sat a while, looking at Jimps with dull 
vacant eyes, and then began a halting journey 
toward the apple. A catbird gave a sudden 
querulous cry, and he jumped and scurried back 
to the farthest corner of the cabin. After a 
while he started again toward the shining fruit. 
After many pauses and several retreats, he 
came near enough to extend a thin, hesitating 
finger and touch it. He picked up the apple, 
which he patted and fondled against his cheek. 
Finally he began to eat it. 

Jimps put out one hand and gently touched 
the child. Brat quivered and seemed about to 
flee ; but after a breathless moment he sat still. 
With soothing murmurs, Jimps stroked his 
arms and his body. At first the child flinched 
at every touch; then he accepted the caresses 
without protest. But, when he had finished 
the apple, he got up and started away, as if 
frightened by his own brief courage. 


246 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Very gently but very firmly, with little soft 
soothing murmurs, Jimps picked him up and 
held him in his arms. Brat shivered, but did 
not try to escape. He sat breathlessly still for 
a while. Presently he gave a long, relaxed 
breath and cuddled down in the encircling 
arms; and then — his first movement toward 
Jimps — he touched his cheek with soft., curious, 
hesitating little fingers. 

“Pore Brat!” Jimps spoke very slowly and 
gently, with pauses that were filled with 
soft hums and murmurs. “Don’t you want — 
h’m-m-m-m! — to go ’way with me — h’m-m-m! 
— out in the pretty sunshine I ’ ’ 

The child snuggled a little closer. He gave 
a fleeting glance of interest, almost affection. 
For a second his eyes were like those of a dog 
when he looks at his master and a groping, 
caged spirit seems to beat against bars that 
shut him away from human kinship. It was 
for but a second. Before Jimps saw, even if he 
could have understood the look, Brat’s face was 
again vacant and his eyes were dull and dim- 
visioned. He pressed his forehead with the 
familiar gesture of pain. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


247 


i ‘ They tell Brat stay in,” he faltered. 

“We ’ll go whar they can’t find us,” said 
Jimps; “whar it ’s good an’ sunny, an’ trees is 
full o’ red apples.” 

“Give Brat apples; two apples.”' 

“I ’ll give you apples an’ apples an’ ap- 
ples,” said Jimps. “Come an’ let ’s git ’em.” 

‘ ‘ M-m-m ! ’ ’ agreed the child. 

They went to the door, and Jimps looked out. 
He gave merely a casual, careless glance, not 
expecting to see any one; for he felt sure the 
Pooles would pick berries till sundown. But no ! 
There they were in full view, coming rapidly 
across the meadow toward the cabin. Bill and 
Marthy and Gaycy Poole were in front ; behind 
them was Dell Martin, with Gabe and Molly. 

“Gosh! I ’m a goner!” exclaimed Jimps. 

His first impulse was to make a dash for lib- 
erty. But, even if he could outrun the gang, he 
would not be able to escape, for Bill had a 
gun and would not hesitate to use it. If he 
could crawl between the logs at the back of the 
cabin — But the cracks were too narrow. He 
gave a despairing glance around, then clam- 
bered up the log wall, caught a joist-pole, and 


248 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


swung himself into the loft. It was merely 
some boards laid across the poles, where a few 
armfuls of hay had been left, but it was the 
one possible hiding-place, his only chance of 
safety. 

“ Don’t tell whar I am,” he said to Brat, in 
an urgent undertone. “They ’ll kill me.” 

Frightened by Jimps’s excitement, the child 
shrank away without answering, and stared 
around with wild, vacant eyes. 

Then, for the rough voices were at the very 
door, Jimps burrowed down in the hay and 
lay as still as a couching rabbit. 

“You Gaycy!” Bill Poole was saying, “you 
moved the prop off ’n the door an’ ain’t put 
it back.” 

“No sich thing. I propped it like I found 
it.” 

“Thar ’t is to show for itself,” said Marthy 
shrilly. “An* ef that Brat had got out an’ 
roamed off an’ — ” 

“You sure he was seekin’ me?” 

Bill Poole’s voice sounded so near that Jimps 
raised his head and peered down cautiously. 
His heart gave a great thump and then stood 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


249 


still. Not four feet from him was a sinewy 
hand covered with shaggy black hair. It was 
Bill Poole’s hand, and it held a gun. The hand 
moved along and rested on a joist-pole, with 
the muzzle, of the gun pointed straight at the 
crouching boy. Had Bill seen him enter the 
cabin; and, divining his hiding place, was he 
about to shoot? No. Even as Jimps felt sure 
this was the case, the hand was withdrawn, 
leaving the gun on the joist-poles, out of reach 
of the children. 

The shuffling steps went to and fro below, 
and then Jimps ’s nostrils were comforted by 
tobacco smoke. Certainly, if the Pooles sus- 
pected his presence, they would not be settling 
themselves quietly with their pipes. 

“I know it ’s so,” Gaycy was saying. “I 
seen Jim Woods, an’ he say he met the sheriff 
what had been to yore house. Jim got word 
he went to git that Brat.” 

“Huh!” Bill snorted. “That was jest a 
blind to git me for that moonshine business. 
Who ’d seek Brat?” There was a queer suspi- 
cion and alarm in his voice. 

“The officers followed you smang to the State 


250 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


line,” said Gaycy; “an’ they ’re jest waitin’ 
for yon to come back.” 

Bill ripped out an oath. ‘ 4 That Farlan pup 
told on me,” he said. “I wisht I ’d come in 
the open when him an’ that gal spied on the 
still. I ’d ’a’ made end o’ him then an’ thar. 
Pap an’ Sam ought to ’a’ shot ’em both. It 
would ’a’ saved a heap o’ trouble.” 

“Hit ’s two weeks too late to talk ’bout 
that,” remarked Gaycy. “What you goin’ to 
do now?” 

“Do?” Bill sent forth a volley of oaths. 
“I ’m goin’ back to clean up the Farlan gang 
with guns an’ fire. Then I ’m goin’ to hit the 
trail to West Virginia.” 

“Good!” exclaimed Gaycy. “That ’s what 
I ’ve been wantin’ to do sence I was big enough 
to tote a gun.” 

“I c’n shoot a Farlan,” said Gabe Martin. 
He had a little lisp that .made his sweet young 
voice sound almost babyish. “I shot a wabbit, 
an’ I c’n shoot a Farlan thest as good.” 

“I ’ll holp,” Molly said eagerly. “I c’n load 
guns an ’ tote news. ’ ’ 

“We ’ll git all our folks,” said Bill. “We ’ll 


WHISTLING JIMPS 251 

clean out the Farlan tribe while we ’re on the 
job.” 

Marthy Poole knocked the ashes out of her 
corncob pipe. 

“My edvice is to do it,” she said decisively, 
“an’ not to waste time talkin’. With Sheriff 
after you, you ’ve got no time to tarry, Bill.” 

4 ‘ I ain ’t goin ’to. W ell, I ain ’t grievin ’ ’bout 
givin’ up this here berryin’. I don’t like the 
way them rattlers fit to-day, an’ they ’re too 
dog-gone thick hereabouts. Hurry up, Mar- 
thy, an’ cook us some victuals. Then we ’ll lay 
down an’ take a nap, an’ we ’ll up an’ out from 
this place. We ’ll shoot up that tribe an’ light 
out to West Virginia to-morrow night.” 

“Hit ’s a good time,” said Gaycy. “To- 
morrow ’s court day, an’ ev’ybody ’ll be down 
at the court-house. We c’n — ” 

The men went on discussing their plans, while 
Jimps lay still and listened. Presently they 
stopped talking and sat still, perhaps absorbed 
in thought, perhaps dozing. 

Jimps moved a little and peeped through a 
crack between the logs. He could not see Bill 
and Gaycy, who were sitting in the doorway. 


252 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Gabe and Molly were collecting sticks for the 
fire that Marthy had lighted. Dell Martin had 
brought a bucket of water from the stream, and 
was making bread by the simple method of add- 
ing salt and dribbles of water to meal she had 
poured on a bag. She put the corn-pones in 
the ashes to bake, and Marthy tossed some 
hunks of fat meat into a frying-pan and boiled 
coffee in a tin bucket. The simple supper was 
soon prepared and eaten. Then they all came 
into the cabin, and Bill lighted a lantern. 

Jimps lay for a while, watching the huge 
fantastic shadows playing on the walls; then 
he rolled over on his back and tried to think, to 
make plans. He must stay up here in the loft, 
where he was safe, until the Pooles went away. 
Then he would hurry home, dodging past them 
in the woods, and warn his family and his kin- 
folks of the planned attack. They would — 

The sound of some one’s scrambling up the 
log wall snapped his meditations short. He 
could not see who it was. He could only hear 
the scuffling feet on the logs, and see a gigantic 
shadow rise and approach. He lay still, frozen 
with terror. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 253 

“Hey! What are you doin’ thar?” de- 
manded Bill Pooled harsh voice* 

“Go up; boy go up,” stammered Brat. 

“Naw; boy won’t go up,’? Bill answered 
roughly; “jest to fall an’ lame yoreself for 
somebody to tote home. You set still.” 

He pulled the child back and put him down 
in a corner, where he sat whimpering and mut- 
tering to himself. 

“What ’s the matter with that boy!” asked 
Gaycy. “He looks mighty cur’ous.” 

“Lawd knows!” said Mar thy. “We ’re 
’bleeged to keep him shet up all the time. 
Half a chanct, he runs ’way, an’ if he gits back 
an’ them folks find out — ” She stopped 
abruptly. 

“Who find out what?” inquired Gaycy. 

Bill cut in, with an oath : “ ’T was a bad 
day ’s job botherin’ with him. Best thing to do 
now is to give him a killin’ lick on top o’ 
his fool head. I ’ll do it, next time I git both- 
ered. Ef we ’re goin’ to clean up the moun- 
tains, we mought ’s well start with him.” 

“Why n’t you take him back to the pore- 
house?” asked Gaycy. 


254 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


‘ ‘ Humph 1” grunted Bill. After a pause he 
went on: “Looky-here, Gaycy. We ’ll want 
a lot o’ ca bridges an’ powder an’ shot. Me 
an’ you better go by SibohPs an’ take what 
he ’s got. Then* we 11 go to court. ’ ’ 

“You got to keep out o’ Sheriff’s sight,’ ’ 
Gaycy reminded him. 

Bill frowned. “But I 11 be on hand when 
the scrimmage comes. See here, Gayce ! Them 
Farlans and Banes always come up the road in 
a bunch, court days. S’pose I hide on this 
side the river, an’ when court crowd breaks, 
you git our folks over in the first ferry-boat. 
We 11 lay way that gang an’ shoot ’em up an’ 
be gone ’fore Sheriff can git ’cross the river.” 

4 ‘ Good work ! ’ ’ Gaycy agreed ; then he yawned 
and said: “Let ’s git a nap now. I b’lieve 
I 11 climb up thar an’ tumble down that hay to 
sleep on.” 

“Naw, you won’t,” said Bill Poole. “These 
here bags is good enough for me an’ plenty 
good for you. You ain’t goin’ in that loft, stir- 
rin’ up snakes. Don’t you know they always 
ha’nt rubbish in a old house? You lay down 
an’ go to sleep. — What ’s that?” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


255 


Jimps had jumped up, rustling the dry hay. 
He could not have avoided starting if he had 
known it would bring the muzzle of Bill Poole ’s 
gun to his head. 

For several minutes he had heard something, 
felt something, stirring at his side. He had 
moved cautiously, to get away from it, but 
suddenly, it touched his hand, and then came 
a sharp pain in his finger. A rattlesnake 
had bitten him — that was his one quick thought. 
He sprang up and flung out his hand. It struck 
a soft furry thing and sent it flying through the 
air. It alighted at Bill’s feet, and went scurry- 
ing through a crack. 

“A chipmunk!” exclaimed Gaycy. “Whoo! 
ain’t it skeered!” 

“I bet a snake was after it,” said Bill. “I 
told you ’bout that old rubbish up thar.” 

Jimps ’s heart, which had seemed to him to 
stop beating, went back to its work. He lay 
perfectly still until he heard heavy breathing 
below and knew that the Pooles were asleep. 
Then he sat up cautiously. Could he slip down 
now and escape? But no ! It would be foolish 
to make the attempt. Even if he could get 


256 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


down without waking the Pooles, he would be 
sure to arouse the dogs, and the men would 
up and on him in a second. He would be no 
match for them, even if he took Bill Poole’s 
gun. 

Bill’s gun! He could not spend the night 
here, eight feet from his mortal enemy armed 
with a loaded gun. Moving very slowly and 
quietly, he got the gun and took out the load. 
Then he replaced the weapon and stretched 
himself on the hay. Even while he was resolv- 
ing that he would stay awake all night, for 
fear of making a betraying sound or movement 
in his sleep, his heavy eyelids fell — and then 
Marthy Poole was calling the men to get up. 

While dawn and moonshine mingled in a pale, 
misty light, the Pooles left the cabin. At the 
last minute Brat tried to pull away from Mar- 
thy ’s leading hand. 

‘ ‘ Brat don ’t want to go, ’ 9 he whined. 6 ‘ Brat 
want to stay with boy . 9 ’ 

No one heeded his words, and, whimpering 
and resisting, he was dragged along. 

When the voices died away in the distance, 
Jimps scrambled from the loft. He followed 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


257 


the Pooles at a safe distance down the little 
valley and along Lost Creek until they crossed 
the ford ; then he dodged past them in the woods 
and took a bee-line for home. The Farlans 
must make ready to attack the foe that expected 
to surprise them. What a killing it would be ! 
He hoped they would not leave a Poole in the 
mountains. 

‘ 4 Pore Brat!” he thought. “He ain’t no 
Poole. He ’s jest a porehouse scrub. I wisht 
I could ’a’ got him away, but now it ’s too late. 
Lawzee ! ef jest I had a gun ! I ’m goin’ to But- 
terfly Flat — ’t ain’t fur out o’ my way — an’ 
borrow old Sibold’s gun ’fore Pooles git thar. 
I c’n slip it back to-morrow, ’fore he misses it. 
I ’ll have a gun after the fightin’. I hope I c’n 
git Bill Poole’s; hit’s a mighty straight- 
shootin’ weepon.” 

He hurried to Butterfly Flat and peeped into 
the window of the back room. There was the 
gun-rack — empty! He had counted so posi- 
tively on getting the weapon that he stood for 
a minute motionless with disappointment and 
vexation. Where was the gun? If there were 
any chance of getting it — 


258 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


He heard Page’s voice, and, going around 
the corner of the house, he saw her sitting in 
the hammock, with her hat on her lap. She was 
waiting for the mail rider, with whom she was 
to go to Manson to see Dr. Wayne and Mr. 
Truitt. Sitting beside her was her cousin, Har- 
rison Puffin, who had just returned from his 
hike. 

A sudden thought came to Jimps Farlan. 
These outsiders might get Brat and take him 
to Dr. Wayne. He would ask them to do it. 
But first — 

“Whar ’s Mr. Sibold?” he demanded. 

Page started up. “Why, Jimps!” she ex- 
claimed. “I did n’t hear you coming. Did — ” 

“Whar ’s Mr. Sibold?” he repeated. 

‘ ‘ Gone to the mill. Do you — ’ ’ 

“How come he took his gun to mill?” inter- 
rupted Jimps. 

“How do you know he took it?” asked Page. 
“He said he was going to bring home some 
squirrels for a stew. Jimps, what is the mat- 
ter?” 

“Nothin 

“But there is something. I know there is! 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


259 


You look so wild and excited. What is it?” 

After all, he must tell them, if they were to 
rescue Brat. 4 4 Cross yore heart an’ sw’ar not 
to let ’em find out we know,” he said. And 
then he hurriedly told about the plot that he 
had overheard. “I ’m out to warn my folks. 
We ’ll be ready for ’em,” he said gloatingly. 
“We ’ll shoot up the gang; you bet we will!” 

“0 Jimps! Jimps!” Page cried. “You 
make my blood run cold, talking about murder 
that way. Harrison, what must we do? If 
only Mr. Sibold were at home!” 

4 4 That old feared-cat ! ’ ’ laughed Jimps. 4 4 He 
don’t mix in no fuss.” 

4 4 We must stop it ourselves, Page; we must!” 
exclaimed Harrison. 

4 4 Stop it! You can’t,” said Jimps. “I 
thought you mought git Brat out the way.” 

4 4 Oh, we will! we must!” cried Page. “I ’m 
going to Manson to see Dr. Wayne. I ’ll ask 
him to send for Brat right away.” 

Jimps scowled. 4 4 Seems like you-all mought 
git him, ’stead o’ blabbin’ to Doctor. I ’d git 
him, but I ’ve got to go an’ warn my folks. 
Pooles is goin’ to lay way on the bluff this side 


260 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


the river, an’ aim to shoot our folks comm’ from 
court this evenin \ ’ 9 

“Warn your kin-folks,” said Harrison. 
i 1 Tell them to keep away from court to-day. 
I ’ll skiddoo to New Canaan and get the sheriff 
to swear in a lot of deputies and have out a 
bunch to arrest the Pooles.” 

“We don’t want sheriff s,” protested Jimps. 
“We c’n match them Pooles an’ settle our own 
fuss. Thar ’ll be sech a killin ’ as the mountains 
nuver knowed ! 9 9 

“Jimps, shut your head!” Harrison said 
sternly. “You go and get your people to stay 
out of the way. Keep off a fight. This kind of 
thing ’s got to stop. We ’ve got to let the law 
punish wrong-doing, instead of taking matters 
in our own hands. You rush right along now. 
I ’m off for the sheriff.” 

And away he ran. 

“I wish there were something I could do,” 
said Page. ‘ ‘ Oh, I hate being a girl ! ’ 9 

“Look here!” said Jimps. “Bill an’ Gay- 
cy ’s coinin’ here for ammernition, to git fixed 
for shootin’. Ef you c ’n hinder gittin’ it — ” 

“I can — I will,” Page cried eagerly. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


261 


Jimps darted homeward through the woods, 
and Page was left alone. She had had a sudden 
vision of herself standing heroically at the 
door and refusing to let the Pooles enter. 
But calm reflection put aside this plan. Bill 
Poole would push her away — would throttle 
her, if necessary — and get what he wanted. 
And if her conduct showed that any one sus- 
pected their plot, they would hasten their deadly 
work. 

She might ask Mrs. Sibold to hide the am- 
munition; but the Pooles would require her to 
give it up, and she would do it, certainly and 
promptly. The good old soul was not the stuff 
of which heroes or martyrs are made. 

Whatever was done, she — Page — must do it, 
alone and quickly. 

Fortunately, she had been in the store with 
the Sibolds so often that she knew where they 
kept all their goods ; and now Mrs. Sibold was 
in the garden, gathering vegetables. Page ran 
behind the counter and took box after box of 
cartridges and shells and powder and shot, car- 
ried them to her own room, and hid them in 
her bed between the straw tick and the feather- 


262 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


bed. She had completed the task and was sit- 
ting quietly on the porch when Bill and Giaycy 
Poole strode down the road, hallooing that they 
wanted shells and cartridges. 

Mrs. Sibold came bustling in to get what they 
ordered. 

“Why, they ain’t here!” she exclaimed, look- 
ing in the accustomed place. 4 ‘ J ef sey ought n ’t 
to move things without telling me where they 
are. Wait a minute and I ’ll find them.” 

But a minute and ten minutes passed in a 
vain search, and the men grew impatient. 

4 1 Here, now ! we ’re in a hurry, ’ ’ Gaycy said, 
with an oath. 

Mrs. Sibold fixed her honest, perplexed eyes 
on him. “That ain’t no language for a post- 
office, young man,” she said reprovingly. “If 
I can’t find the things, I can’t, can I? You ’ll 
just have to wait till Jefsey gets back from 
the mill and — ” 

“We ’ve got no time to wait,” he said 
roughly. 

“Here!” Bill drew Gaycy aside. “Don’t 
skeer the old critter an’ let her know thar ’s 
somethin’ up,” he mumbled. “We c ’n git on 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


263 


’thout the ammernition. All the boys have got 
thar guns an ’ I reckon they ’re loaded up. An ’ 
thar ’s a old six-shooter an’ some ca’tridges at 
my house. Let ’s go by an* git ’em. We c’n 
go ’cross ’Way-High. An’ in a pile o’ rocks 
whar that mash-kittle was, thar ’s — ” he fin- 
ished his sentence by throwing back his head, 
drawing in a mouthful of air, and smacking his 
lips. 

Gaycy laughed. ‘ ‘ I thought we mought rowst 
up a bottle some whar. Come on.” 

Page watched them start off on the trail that 
led up Falling Water to the still and across 
^Way-High Mountain to Bill Poole’s cabin in 
Bocky Hollow. The men were hardly out of 
sight when Mr. Smith came, and Page jogged 
off with him and his mail-bags. She was so 
eager to see Dr. Wayne and get help for Brat 
that the way seemed terribly long. At last they 
reached Manson. With a hasty “ Thank you 
and good-by!” to Mr. Smith, she jumped out of 
the buggy and ran to the doctor’s door. 

“Dr. Wayne! Dr. Wayne!” she called ex- 
citedly. “ Oh ! where is he ? I must see him at 
once; oh, at once!” 


264 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Mrs. Wayne came out. 

“He has gone to Berton Siding to attend to 
a brakesman who got hurt, ’ 7 she said. ‘ ‘ He ’ll 
be back soon. Why, dear ! what is the matter 1 7 7 

Page burst into tears and sobbed out the 
story. 

The doctor’s wife put a soothing arm around 
her. i ‘ There, there, dear ! 7 7 she said. ‘ 4 Things 
are n ’t so bad. The boys will get officers and 
prevent the fight. In to-day’s excitement the 
Pooles won’t do anything about the child. As 
soon as Joseph comes home he ’ll arrange to get 
him; and he ’ll be here any minute. Come in 
and wait for him.” 

They waited for Dr. Wayne — waited and 
waited, while the leaden-footed hours crept by. 


CHAPTER XII 


T HAT Tuesday morning found the Farlans 
taking life in their usual happy-go-lucky 
way. Minta sauntered into the woods, with a 
red bandanna handkerchief knotted at the cor- 
ners to form a makeshift basket, and brought it 
back filled with the mushrooms she called 
“swamps” and “ deer-horns/ ’ A fire was 
started in the pile of rocks that served as a fair- 
weather kitchen, and the family squatted or lay 
about at ease while a corn-cake was baking in 
the ashes and the mushrooms were frying with 
a piece of fat pork. 

“Hey! Thar ’s Jimps. He ’s cornin' hot- 
foot !” said Minta, glancing up the road. 

Jimps ’s absence had caused his family no un- 
easiness. He often spent the night in the open, 
watching birds and beasts that, hidden by day, 
roam fearlessly by night. So it was not his 
absence but the manner of his return that now 
excited his family’s interest. 

265 


266 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“ ’Lo Jimps! What ’s drivin , you?” called 
Minta. 

“We ’re goin’ to have a kilim’,” he sang out 
jubilantly; then he added in a lower tone: 
“We ’re goin’ to clean the mountains o’ 
Pooles. They ’re aimin’ to git the drap on us, 
but we ’ll do the shootin’.” 

“Harken to that!” exclaimed Mrs. Farlan. 

“What crazy-like notion ’s in yore head?” 
asked Minta. 

In hurried, broken sentences Jimps told about 
the Pooles’ plot. 

“We ’ve got to let our folks know,” he said. 
“Ev’y man ’s got to be ready, with his gun an’ 
all the ammernition he c’n git. We c’n go 
’cross the river at the upper ford an’ come 
down on Pooles. They ’ll be set to layway us 
crossin’ the ferry, an’ we ’ll take ’em back- 
sides. An’ I brung it on,” he exulted. 
“They ’re gittin’ on the rampage ’cause they 
think I sot Sheriff on ’em.” 

He laughed, but his mother looked troubled. 

“So bein’, you got to lay low,” she said. 
1 1 They ’ll shoot you on sight. ’ ’ 

“Naw, I ain’t,” he said fiercely. “I ’m a- 


WHISTLING JIMPS 267 

goin’ to plant a Poole — Bill I want it to be — 
Tore sundown.’ ’ 

“Looky-here, son,” said Mrs. Farlan, in a 
tone that Jimps had never before heard from 
her lips. “They got the drap on yore daddy, 
an’ I can’t spare you. Ef you won’t be heed- 
ful, I ’ll walk at yore side through the moun- 
tains all this day.” 

“What you want me to do?” Jimps asked 
sullenly. 

“I want you to come with me an’ the young 
uns down to the old sawmill on Failin’ Water. 
Ain’t nobody apt to pester that place. Thar 
ain’t no Pooles that-a-way but Bill, an’ he ’ll 
be on his way to court to that fracas.” 

A deep flush stained Jimps ’s face. “Gi’ me 
yore petticoat, Nance,” he said bitterly. “I ’m 
a baby, a gal-baby, that can’t take a whack at 
the folks that shot my daddy. ” 

His mother’s lips twitched. “Ef you had a 
weepon — ” she began. 

“I ’m goin’ to git one,” he said confidently. 

“Well, then,” said his mother, “I ain’t 
aimin’ to keep you out o’ yore part o’ the 
fracas. But you ain’t to offer yoreself to 


268 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Pooles to shoot. Here, you-all, come on. Thar 
ain’t no minute to waste.” 

There was a brief flurry, like the starting up 
of a covey of partridges. Then the Farlans 
went off through the forest as quietly as a flock 
of birds. 

At the sawmill Jimps left his mother and the 
children, provisioned for the day with some 
hunks of corn-bread and a bucket of huckleber- 
ries. He was going to New Canaan to warn 
his kin of the Pooles’ attack. But he was in 
no hurry. On court days the men of the com- 
munity spent the day at the county town, and 
the crowd would not break up until late in the 
afternoon. Then would come the feudist bat- 
tle, and if he were to take part in it he must 
have a weapon. So he resolved to go back and 
get Mr. Sibold’s gun, if the old man had re- 
turned. But when he came to the mouth of 
Bocky Bun, he paused. 

‘ ‘ Pore Brat!” he said to himself. “I wisht 
I could git him an’ put him safe with our young 
uns. To-night I could take him to Dr. Wayne. 
I wonder ef Bill an ’ Marthy ’s off totin ’ news, 
an’ he thar by his lonesome?” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


269 


Jimps stood irresolute a moment ; then keep- 
ing a keen lookout, he turned up Rocky Hol- 
low. He did not follow the path. Instead, he 
scrambled along the bluff overlooking “Shear- 
am’s Den” and the Poole cabin. As he ap- 
proached the hut he advanced very slowly, tak- 
ing advantage of the shelter of every rock and 
clump of bushes. At last he reached the place 
where he and Page had hidden the day that 
Marthy Poole had frightened them away from 
the cabin. There he paused and scanned the 
house, the hollow, all the surrounding country. 
No one was in sight — no one, unless those were 
people — they might be cattle — far off and ob- 
scured by foliage, coming down ’Way-High 
Mountain. 

If only Brat were alone ! 

Jimps crept cautiously to the cabin, and 
stopped at the hole he had hacked in the wall. 
It was stuffed now with old rags, and these he 
began to remove very carefully. He heard 
voices inside. They were not the harsh rumble 
of Bill Poole and the shrill tones of Marthy; 
they were young voices; one was especially 
sweet and soft, with a little lisp. Jimps knew 


270 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


them both. He understood at once that Gabe 
and Molly Martin had been left here with Brat 
for safe-keeping. He stood listening, to find 
out whether Bill and Marthy Poole too were 
inside. 

4 4 Ketch Brat, Gabe, ketch him ! Don ’t let him 
git away!” Molly called suddenly. 

Then Jimps heard scampering footsteps and 
a little scrimmage. 

“Now shet the door,” said Molly. 

“Aw, Molly! We don’t want to be shet up 
in the dark,” objected Gabe. “Let ’th tie him 
to the bed-potht. Then we c’n play whar we 
pleath. You keep still!” he said harshly to 
Brat, who was whimpering and struggling to 
escape. 

Jimps was not yet sure that the children were 
alone. But when he heard Brat’s pitiful cries, 
he forgot his caution and his fears. He rushed 
around the corner of the cabin, and sprang in- 
side with a blood-curdling shriek. 

“Devil will git them that hurt pore Brat!” 

If his Satanic Majesty had appeared in per- 
son, Gabe and Molly could not have been more 
frightened. Jimps jerked up an old broom and 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


271 


whacked them soundly, jeering and hooting at 
them as they ran, screaming, round and round 
the room. Presently they scrambled up the 
ladder into the loft. 

Then Jimps turned to Brat, who was stand- 
ing beside the table, too terrified to move, seized 
him, and ran out. As he did so he sent back 
a fierce threat to Gabe and Molly: “Ef you 
stir out that loft this day, I ’ll skin you alive ! 
Whoo-oop!” He ended with an Indian yell. 

Then he dashed down the path. Time was 
too precious to spend it in making a way 
through the thicket. 

At first Brat lay passive in his arms, too 
frightened to move or cry out. Suddenly he 
tried to jerk away, and gave a shrill, unhuman, 
awful cry that startled Jimps so he almost 
dropped the child. 

“Lawzee! Is I skeered you plumb crazy!” 
he gasped. ‘ i Thar! thar!” he said recovering 
himself a little. ‘ ‘ Don’t be skeered. Ain’t 
nothin ’ goin ’ to hurt you. ’ ’ 

Brat moaned and kept on struggling. 

“Why, hi, honey! Don’t you mind them ap- 
ples, them red apples?” Jimps hummed and 


272 WHISTLING JIMPS 

chirruped and whistled as he was wont to do 
to wild creatures and as he had done to the child 
the day before in the cabin on Rattlesnake 
Mountain. 

Brat seemed to remember the call, or at least 
to realize that it came from a friend. He 
stopped whimpering, and cuddled in Jimps ’s 
arms. 

Presently Jimps put him down and took his 
hand to lead him along. But they made such 
slow progress — it seemed a snail’s pace — that 
again he picked Brat up and carried him. And 
so they approached Falling Water. 

They were far on the path to safety, half- 
way to the sawmill. Why, then, was Jimps r s 
face so pale, his eyes so anxious, his haste so 
urgent and frantic? Ah! he was sure now of 
what he had feared five minutes before. Those 
were dogs yelping on a trail — his trail ! Those 
were fierce, pursuing voices. The figures he 
had seen coming down Way-High Mountain 
were Pooles ; and they were after him. 

If he left Brat, he might yet escape; but he 
felt sure that Bill would kill the child, as he 
had threatened to do the evening before. Cer- 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


273 


tainly he would shoot him — Jimps, a Farlan — 
if he found him carrying the child away. And 
what good would it do Brat for him to die too? 
He would save himself. He loosened his hand- 
clasp. Brat tightened his hold, gave a quaver- 
ing laugh, and perked his lips to a whistle, a 
mimicry of Jimps’s wild-wood call. Poor lit- 
tle chap ! 

Jimps caught him in his arms and ran 
on and on and on, though his heart was pound- 
ing as if it would burst his body. And now it 
flashed upon him that there was one way of 
possible escape — the Jewel-Box. Only he and 
Page knew the place; every one else thought 
that cliff could not be climbed. 

They came out of Rocky Hollow into the path 
beside Falling Water, which was rushing and 
dashing along its rocky way down the gorge. 
Suddenly Brat stopped and pulled back with all 
his might. 

“Come on!” Jimps said urgently. 

“No! no! no!” sobbed Brat, shaking as if 
with an ague, and as white as a ghost. “Water 
take me ’way . 9 9 

“Naw, it won't!” cried Jimps. “We Ve got 


274 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


to go ’cross the water to keep mean folks from 
gittin’ you. Come on!” 

But Brat stood as if root-ed to the spot. 
There was no time to argue, to persuade. 
Jimps caught him up, hurried along the trail, 
and waded the stream above Crystal Falls. 

He went along the ledge, slid down the rock, 
and put Brat down in the nook that Page 
called the Jewel-Box. A precious treasure it 
now had in charge! — the safety, perhaps the 
lives, of the two little fugitives. If they could 
wait here, undiscovered, until their pursuers 
went away, they could go on down the stream 
and escape. 

Brat looked vacantly around; then his face 
lighted and he uttered an exclamation of pleas- 
ure. The drops on the thin, coppery leaves of 
moss were glittering in the afternoon sunshine, 
catching a myriad dancing rays that changed 
them to topaz, sapphire, ruby, emerald. 

“Pretty! pretty!” he cried, stretching his 
hands to grasp the treasures. “O-oh!” He 
gave a disappointed little cry as the shining 
loveliness vanished and left only wetness on 
his finger. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 275 

Jimps gave him a quick, startled glance. 
“Why, that ’s like — ” 

Louder yells and yelps interrupted him. 

“Sh-sh-sh!” he said, putting his finger on 
his lips and shaking his head at the child. 

Brat gave a puzzled stare, and then turned 
back to the glittering gems. After trying again 
and again to pick them up, only to lose the treas- 
ures he grasped, he sat still, pointing his 
finger here and there, murmuring to himself: 
1 1 That ’s mine ! An * that ’s mine ! An ’ that ’s 
mine ! ’ ’ 

Jimps crouched on the ledge and watched the 
trail on the other side of the stream. It was 
a lovely afternoon, soaked through with sun- 
shine until it seemed turned to gold. The trees, 
stirred by a gentle breeze, were making soft lit- 
tle sounds, like a baby murmuring as it falls 
asleep on its mother’s breast. The monoto- 
nous noise of the waterfall had a lulling, sooth- 
ing sound. Some sulphur butterflies drifted 
into the Jewel-Box and alighted on the verdant 
moss. A goldfinch bounded through the air, 
twittering as it came, and poised upon a sway- 
ing weed to harvest its seeds. A lovely, peace- 


276 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


ful scene! Ah! louder than breeze and bird- 
song, rising even over the dashing waters, came 
those menacing, terrifying sounds — the baying 
of dogs on a hot trail, the encouraging calls of 
men behind them. 

Then they came in sight. The dogs, with 
their noses to the ground, ran to the place 
where Jimps had entered the stream. They 
stopped short and then trotted along the bank, 
sniffing the air and trying to regain the lost 
scent. Urging them on were Bill and Gaycy 
Poole. 

Jimps turned to adjure Brat to keep still; 
but the warning was unnecessary. The child, 
wearied of his elusive gems, had stretched out 
in the sunshine and was asleep. 

Jimps crouched down, holding his breath. 
He felt as if those men must feel his eyes on 
them, must see him through the close rhododen- 
dron-bushes on that seemingly impassable cliff. 
They stood talking together. He could see 
their lips moving, but no sound of their voices 
came over the clatter of the waterfall. 

But it was easy to guess what they were say- 
ing : Whoever had carried off Brat had taken 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


277 


to the water so as to break the trail. He could 
not wade far, either down-stream or up; for 
just below them was Crystal Falls, and Little 
Falls was above them, between them and But- 
terfly Flat. Sooner or later the fugitive must 
come out on the side where they were, for they 
thought there was no way of escaping on the 
opposite cliff. 

Bill and Gaycy went down the trail to the foot 
of the falls, but the dogs did not regain the 
lost scent. So, deciding that the fugitive must 
have gone the other way, the men came back. 
They paused near the place where Jimps had 
crossed, and presently one of the hounds ran 
into the stream. Five steps farther it would 
regain the scent. It paused at the rapid cur- 
rent, started on, and then — then a weird, un- 
earthly, awful cry rang out suddenly. The dog 
stopped, whimpering, with its nose in the air. 
Bill Poole jumped and looked around. He said 
something to Gaycy, and they seemed trying to 
locate the direction of the sound. Then they 
hurried up the trail, with the dogs at their 
heels. 

Jimps turned, shivering, and looked at the 


278 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


child. He had cried out in his sleep, and had 
not awakened, though he was frowning and 
twitching restlessly. 

A slow half-hour passed. Jimps grew im- 
patient. He and Brat ought to be going. But 
he dared not cross the stream and return to 
the trail above the falls; the Pooles might 
still be on the lookout. They would have to 
descend the cliff where he and Page had climbed 
up; he could keep in the edge of the stream a 
while, and then take the path to the sawmill. 
There he would leave Brat, and, giving up 
hopes of the gun, he would hurry to New 
Canaan, to warn his kin of the waylaying 
Pooles; for it was getting late. 

“Git up, Brat! Git up! We got to go,” he 
said. 

The child opened his eyes with a wide, vacant 
stare ; then shivered and clutched Jimps ’s hand. 
They started down the cliff. The way was dif- 
ficult, impossible for the awkward, staggering 
feet of the child. Jimps lowered him from the 
ledge to a rock, and climbed to a lower foothold 
and reached up and got him. He put the child 
in the forks of a rhododendron-bush and helped 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


279 


him down another step. So they went slowly 
down the cliff. At first Brat obediently stepped 
or held where Jimps directed. But when he 
caught a glimpse of the waterfall through the 
foliage, he seemed paralyzed with terror. 
Jimps had to bear him along by main force. 

Standing on a narrow ledge, he leaned over 
to put Brat beside an azalea-bush, and the rot- 
ten shale gave way under their weight. There 
was one second in which Jimps might have 
saved himself by dropping the child and seiz- 
ing a root or a stone; but he did not do it. 
He thrust Brat against the bush, and then, — 
then he tried to catch and save himself. It 
was too late! He went crashing down on the 
rock below. There he lay, without movement 
or sign of life. 

Brat, propped between the rock and the bush, 
sat trembling. He seemed not to realize what 
had befallen his friend, nor to be frightened 
at his own perilous position. With wide, ter- 
rified eyes, he gazed at the rushing stream; 
then, shuddering, he turned and tried to climb 
away from it. An impossible task for his weak 
little feet ! He slipped and went down the cliff, 


280 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


and the knifelike edge of a protruding rock 
gashed his head. 

Presently Jimps stirred and uttered a faint 
moan. He opened his eyes and looked around 
vaguely. 

“I feel mighty funny; dauncy-like , ’ 9 he mut- 
tered. 

He tried to get up, but fell back with a groan. 
He lay still a while; then, very carefully so as 
not to bring that sharp pain to his leg again, 
he sat up. His right arm hung limp and 
twisted, and his leg was crumpled under him. 

“I done broke my leg,” he said, speaking 
slowly, as if explaining matters to a self that 
was remote from the wounded body. “ An ’ my 
shoulder hurts. I ’m — I ’m hurtin’ all over.” 

He eased himself down again, and lay there 
with his eyes shut. 

Where was he? What had happened? — Oh! 
he remembered: Brat, the Pooles, the Jewel- 
Box, on the way to the sawmill. 

“I got to go — go on,” he gasped. “Ef I 
don’t, Pooles ’ll git the drap on all our folks, 
like they done on pappy.” 

But the effort to get up only brought back 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


281 


jabbing pains in his leg and shoulder, and made 
him sick and dizzy. i 6 Brat! Brat!” he called. 

There was a clump of rhododendron between 
him and the child; he could not see the little 
figure stretched on the rock — very still at first, 
but stirring when he called again. 

Presently the child sat up and looked around. 
His vague expression changed; now he was 
dazed and bewildered. He got up and came 
from behind the bush, stepping slowly and un- 
certainly ; it seemed as if his mind like his body 
was groping toward something he wanted. 

After a long pause Jimp’s voice came again. 
“Brat! Brat! Uh, pore little un! little un!” 

The child gave a cry — not his old unhuman 
shriek, but an answering call that sounded like 
Jimps ’s name; he seemed for the first time to 
see Jimps and went, staggering, toward him. 

The narrow gorge had lost the full sunlight 
now. One long ray pierced the foliage and 
shone on the fair face of the child, on the blue 
eyes and on the golden hair which was stained 
with blood. But the light was not merely from 
without. The eyes were no longer vacant and 
dim and wandering; they were fixed steadily 


282 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


on Jimps with a look of full recognition. That 
was not the sagging, empty face Jimps had 
seen an hour ago. It was another face. It 
was — it was — 

“Grief !” he gasped. 

“Jimp!” cried a glad, loving little voice. 

The child’s arms were around Jimps; his lips 
were at their well-remembered dear trick of 
giving “a chain of kisses” to encircle his neck. 
Jimps sank back on the rock. 

“It ’s a angel, a good pityin’ angel,” he mur- 
mured. 

“Jimp! my Jimp!” 

The kisses seemed very real. 

“Who — who are you?” faltered the boy, star- 
ing hard at the face, so strangely, so impossi- 
bly familiar. 

“Grief.” 

“But you ’re dead. You ’re drownded in 
Failin’ Water.” 

The child shuddered. “The bad water got 
me. I ain’t nuver goin’ ’way from my Jimp.” 
He lifted his head and gave a broken, faltering 
whistle. 

Jimps smiled. “That ’s Grief,” he said. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 283 

“He nuver got that right. He aPays made a 
break on the middle. Grief!” 

Yes, the child was real. By some miracle, 
it was little Grief that he had saved from the 
Pooles. No, not saved. The child was not safe 
yet, and he himself was in pain and danger. 

“Yore head ’s cut. Don’t it hurt you?” 
Jimps put a gentle finger-tip on the wound in 
the child’s head. 

“Umph-m-m.” The child made a dissenting 
murmur. 

Jimps lay still a minute. He could not go 
for help. Terribly bruised, with dislocated 
shoulder and broken leg, he could not go the 
rough way to the sawmill. Could the child go 
with a message? He clasped the little hands 
close. 

“Harken, little Grief!” he said, speak- 
ing slowly and solemnly, as one giving a life- 
and-death charge. “Go down-stream. Go 
down the path. You come to a sawmill. Stay 
thar. Tell mammy to come — git me — an’ she ’s 
got to go — go — ” 

The child burst into tears and threw his arms 
around Jimps. 


284 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Quick! Down the path. The sawmill. 
Mammy — mammy — ’ ’ 

“ Yes ! yes ! ’ ’ sobbed Grief. He kissed Jimps. 
Ah! the same sweet trick of leaving “a kiss to 
stay till I come back.” 

He went through the water and clambered 
up the bank to the path. There he stood still 
a minute. Then Jimps saw him turn away from 
the path that led to safety and to help. He 
took the up-stream way, the path toward Rocky 
Hollow. 

“Come back! Pooles ’ll git you,” called 
Jimps. “Grief! Grief! Go t ’other way!” 

But his faint voice did not go across the 
rushing water, over the din of the falls. He 
groaned. He tried to drag himself up the bluff, 
to follow and save the child, to get help for 
his kinsmen, to — Sharp pains darted through 
him; everything turned black before him; he 
reeled and fell. 

A wood-thrush raised its sweet, clear note 
near by. But it was unanswered by the one 
who had so often repeated its call. He was ly- 
ing, helpless and unconscious, at the foot of 
the bluff. 


CHAPTER XIII 


W HEN Harrison Ruffin left Page and 
Jimps at the Sibolds’, he hurried down 
the mountain to New Canaan, the little county 
town. 

At first he followed the unfrequented woods 
road winding between Cap and Deer mountains. 
As he passed the Farlan cabin, he gave it a 
glance and saw that it was empty. Jimps, 
speeding through the unpathed forest, had ar- 
rived fifteen minutes before, and the Farlans 
were already on their way to the old sawmill. 

A mile below the cabin the road joined the 
main highway. On the four miles between the 
cross-roads and New Canaan, Harrison passed 
many people, singly or in little groups. They 
were slouching along afoot; jogging on mule- 
back or horse-back; traveling in wagons, ox- 
carts, buggies. Many of the lank, raw-boned 
men had wicked-looking guns on their shoulders 
or pistols stuck in their belts. 

285 


286 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


In all the miles he met no one, for that day 
every man’s face was turned in the same direc- 
tion. It was court day. And court day in a 
Southern rural community draws its crowd 
equaled only by a county fair or a “big meet- 
ing.” 

As Harrison approached the river, the coun- 
try flattened itself out into a little valley, and 
the road made a sharp elbow between the river 
and a bluff. He glanced at the bluff where, 
Jimps had said, the Pooles planned to lie in 
wait to attack the Farlans. The place was well 
chosen. The bend of the road was secluded, 
and any number of men could lie concealed on 
the rocky, wooded cliff, and could flee and hide 
in the forest beyond. 

Harrison turned the elbow. The road lay 
straight and open to the river, where a ferry- 
boat plied back and forth, carrying the crowds 
to the county town on the opposite shore. He 
crossed the river in the loaded boat, which 
moved slowly along, propelled by clumsy 
wooden sweeps, and held against the current 
by a rope looped over a stout wire that was 
stretched between poles on the river-banks. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


287 


While the ferryman was fastening the boat 
by winding a chain around a stake, Harrison 
sprang ashore and hurried to Sheriff Priced 
home. 

He was met at the door by the sheriff’s 
mother, a yellowish little shriveled woman, who 
looked like an early-plucked unripe apple. 

“Jim? Lawzee! He’s t’other side the 
lake, I reckon,” she said in answer to Harri- 
son’s question. “It ’s some moonshine busi- 
ness. Folks is makin’ a mighty upstir ’bout 
liquor nowadays. 1 say thar ’s a heap worser 
things ’n whisky in the mountains. Why, they 
say at Lake Hotel even church members dance 
an’ play kyards an’ — ” 

“Please, ma’am, when will the sheriff be 
back?” Harrison interrupted. 

“Uh! some time to-day. Jim nuver missed 
a whole court-day since he was knee-high to a 
grasshopper.” 

“But he may be too late,” muttered Harri- 
son. “I ’ll go to Mr. Jobson. He ’s a lawyer; 
he ’ll know what to do. ’ ’ 

The lawyer listened to Harrison’s story, and 
then said deliberately : 4 i The proper legal pro- 


288 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


cedure in this case is to put the threatening 
parties, the aforesaid Pooles, under peace 
bond.” 

“ Peace bond?” 

“Yes.” The lawyer began a leisurely ex- 
planation. “William and Gaycy Poole have 
been heard to threaten violence, and on testi- 
mony of the person who heard them they can be 
required to promise, under bond, not to mo- 
lest — ” 

“Promise not to molest!” exclaimed Harri- 
son. “Why, they ’re inciting their whole gang, 
and they ’re on their way this minute, with 
guns in their hands, to shoot all the Farlans.” 

“So you suppose, so you suppose. But every 
one of those men must be regarded as innocent 
until he is, and is proved, guilty.” 

“If that ’s law — to let the Pooles kill the 
Farlans before anything is done to keep them 
from shooting — I don’t think much of the law,” 
said Harrison. 

“You are probably unnecessarily alarmed,” 
Mr. Jobson said, with a smile that made Har- 
rison flush. “These mountain bullies often 
threaten to ‘eat people up alive,’ but they con- 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


289 


tinue to satisfy their appetites with ground- 
hogs and mud-cats. If you desire a peace bond, 
however, to relieve your feelings, you, having 
heard these threats, will have to swear — ” 

“I didn’t hear the Pooles,” Harrison said 
curtly. “ Jimps Farlan did. I ’ll find him and 
send him to you. That peace bond seems to 
me a mighty poor thing, but I suppose it ’s bet- 
ter than nothing. And Jimps and I can warn 
his people.’ ’ 

He went out to look for Jimps. The little 
town, usually so still and sleepy, was now 
thronged and noisy. Men were bustling up 
and down the street, standing on the sidewalks, 
perched on fences, squatting in little groups in 
vacant lots ; chewing tobacco and talking ; whit- 
tling and talking; drinking and talking. It was 
a rare social occasion. 

Harrison, with one subject in mind, paused 
only long enough to catch the drift of the con- 
versations. 

“ Yeh, Jone ! Ef you want to rent good land 
for corn — ” 

“Doc say thar ain’t no chance ef flu gits — ” 

“How ’bout that pig you was to pay for, 


290 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


court Tore last? Is you aiIniIl , to let him git 
growed an ’ give hog price ? ’ ’ 

“Shuh! grand jury ’s oountin , liquor cases 
by dozens an’ — ” 

“Ef I ’d ’a’ been Pres ’dent when the war 
come on — ” 

‘ 4 Number One oak lumber to sell — 99 

“An’ Joe Price’s sister told mammy she 
heared — ” 

Harrison went into the court-house. Per- 
haps Jimps had followed a friend or kinsman 
in the shifting crowd that went to hear evidence 
and argument in cases where plaintiff and de- 
fendant were familiar acquaintances of half the 
county. No Jimps. He went to the two “gen- 
eral merchandise ’ ’ shops, where men were buy- 
ing crackers and cheese and treating to soft 
drinks. Jimps was not there. He scoured the 
alleys where horse-traders were chaffering and 
staging occasional races with a little betting on 
the side. He even examined groups in fence- 
corners and tumble-down sheds, where poker 
games were going on and jugs and bottles con- 
taining liquids not openly salable were being 
handed around. He searched every place, every 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


291 


nook and corner, over and over again. But he 
did not find Jimps. 

“Do you know the Farlans and Pooles, sir?” 
Harrison asked a substantial-looking man whom 
he met at a street-comer. 

“By sight and by ill name,” was the reply. 
“Farlans are scattered around. That ’s Tom 
Farlan trying to trade off the gray mule. His 
brother Peter is at that peddler’s cart. I saw 
the Poole gang together back of the blacksmith 
shop — up to some devilment, I reckon. What 
Pooles or Farlans are you looking for, young 
man?” 

Harrison mumbled a vague answer. The 
man went away, and Harrison stood still, frown- 
ing at his own thoughts. Oh ! where was Jimps 
Farlan, who ought to have been here warning 
his kinsmen an hour ago? The sun was west- 
ering. In two or three hours the Pooles would 
cross the river and station themselves on that 
bluff. Soon the Farlans would follow, going 
together not only for friendship and company, 
but also because the old feud made conflicts al- 
ways probable and there was safety in numbers. 
They would go up the road as far as the bluff — 


292 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


Ought he to seek out and warn them? Would 
they believe his tale? If they did, mightn’t 
they turn on the Pooles and fight them here and 
now? 

Oh! what should he do? How could he, an 
outsider and alone, prevent the feudist battle? 
Suddenly his face brightened. 

“I ’ve got it!” he exclaimed. 

It might not be a legal plan or a wise plan, 
but he believed it would work; he would make 
it work ! He ran to the livery-stable and hired 
a horse ; and after a little private talk with the 
stableman, he thrust something into his pocket. 
Then he mounted and galloped away. 

Just a boy on a reckless pleasure ride, he 
seemed to the Pooles whom he passed at the 
blacksmith shop. There were Andy and Gaycy 
and Reece and a dozen others. How set and 
cruel and eager they looked, clutching their guns 
with sure, tense hands! 

Harrison Ruffin was no coward, but when he 
saw those men and thought of what he was 
planning to do, he shuddered and turned pale. 
Could he do it? Would the desperate plan suc- 
ceed? A picture flashed into his mind. He 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


293 


saw himself — a little, little fellow — trying to 
dam a swollen brook with a wisp of grass, that 
the fierce current caught and dashed over, tri- 
umphing. As — as — if now he failed — 

But not for one instant did his purpose waver. 
He summoned the ferryman, made the slow 
journey across the river, laid the length of his 
whip upon the horsed flank, and sped up the 
road. 

Bill Poole, who was sitting under a willow- 
tree on the bank of the river, gave the boy an 
idle glance and then settled back to wait for his 
gang. 

Although Mr. Jobson had attached slight im- 
portance to what Harrison had said, he did in- 
tend to mention the matter to the sheriff and 
advise him to look out for the Pooles when the 
court crowd was breaking up. But, busy with 
one little case after another, he forgot the mat- 
ter until late in the afternoon, when he went 
into the sheriff’s office to ask if the witnesses 
had been summoned in a certain case. 

As he went in, Mr. Price stopped in the mid- 
dle of a joke to answer the urgent telephone. 
The officer’s face changed from idle jollity to 


294 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


startled concern. His eyes bulged in his red 
face, and he uttered one exclamation after 
another : 

“By heck, Doctor! . . . Gee whiz! . . . On 
the bluff? . . . Gosh, Doc! . . . Yes, suh; yes, 
suh! . . . Drat it! . . . Quick as I kin, ef it 
ain’t too late.” 

He slung up the receiver and turned to the 
group of gaping men. 

“Doc Wayne,” he said hastily. “He says 
Pooles aim to hide on the bluff yon-side the 
river an’ shoot down Farlans goin’ home. 
Some boys was to let us know.” 

“You ’d better get a posse as quickly as pos- 
sible,” interrupted Mr. Jobson. 

“I see a bunch o’ Parians goin’ to the ferry 
a while ago,” said a man who had just come in. 
“I bet Pooles is over the river.” 

“Stir yore stumps!” the sheriff cried hast- 
ily. “You-all got yore guns? Martin, you 
an’ Jim Butler an’ — ” 

He quickly collected strapping, mettlesome 
men, and they hurried to the ferry. 

There was indeed no time to lose. The Poole 
gang had crossed the river three-quarters of 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


295 


an hour before. And now the ferry-boat was 
on its way back, after carrying over the Far- 
lans. They were still in sight on the other side 
of the river. The sheriff shouted to them to 
stop. But, not understanding the summons, 
they only yelled and waved back, and then 
went on up the road and disappeared behind the 
river’s fringe of willows. 

“Lawd ! we ’ll be too late,” groaned the sher- 
iff. Shops and court-house and streets were 
emptied now. Men crowded into the ferry- 
boat and into every available skiff and canoe 
and rowboat, and hurried across the river, ex- 
pecting every second to hear a fusillade from 
the bluff. 

Up the road where the Farlans were going 
the Pooles had hurried just before, as eager for 
the shooting as boys for a football game. 

i ‘I sold my horse for this six-shooter,” said 
Reece Poole. “It ’ll take me farther ’n he 
would. ’ ’ 

“My gun ’s got two barrels,” remarked Bill 
Poole, holding it up. “One fixed old Jim Far- 
lan. T’other ’s ready for that boy, Whistlin’ 
Jimps, o’ his ’n.” 


296 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Whoop! Won’t thar be a bone-pickin’! — 
nary a starvin’ buzzard in the mountains this 
year!” exclaimed Gaycy. 

“Here! scoot up the bluff,” said Bill Poole, 
laughing with the others. 

An ominous click! click! click! in the thicket 
above them cut their laughter short. 

“Hands up! or we shoot!” cried a stern 
voice. 

Bill Poole, lightning-quick, raised his gun; 
but it tumbled from his hand as a bullet went 
through his right wrist. 

“Drop your guns! Hands up!” 

At the repeated command, so grimly empha- 
sized, every weapon clattered on the ground 
and every hand was raised. 

“Farlans! An* got the drap on us,” Gaycy 
Poole muttered, with an oath. 

“Walk down the road to the ferry; slow. 
Anybody that lowers his hand or turns his head 
or starts to run is a dead man ! ’ ’ 

There was a second’s hesitation. 

“One! Two! — ” 

The Pooles did not wait for “Three!” the 
signal to shoot. They turned sullenly and 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


297 


slouched down the road, gnashing their teeth 
with helpless rage, expecting every second to 
be followed by bullets. But worse than bullets 
was coming to them. At the bend of the road 
they met the Farlans face to face. 

For an amazed second the Farlans stared at 
the braggart, fire-eating bullies coming down 
the road with their hands high in the air, re- 
treating — from whom? from what? The road 
behind them was empty, except for an old stray 
sheep that came out of the thicket, shaking his 
head and uttering a dismal ‘ ‘ Baa ! ’ 9 

“Is that what skeered ’em?” cried one of the 
Farlan boys. 

The tense silence was broken by a mighty 
hurst of laughter. 

With a bellow like an angry bull, Bill Poole 
lowered his head and ran butting at the fore- 
most Farlan. The youngster dodged, jumped 
up and cracked his heels together, and snapped 
his fingers, shouting: “Hooray! Farlans! 
Farlans!” 

Knives were being drawn and the Farlans 
had out their guns when the sheriff and his 
party came up and prevented the fight. 


298 WHISTLING JIMPS 

There was a hurried inquiry. The Farlans 
testified joyously that when they came up the 
road from the ferry they met the Pooles run- 
ning away from nobody and nothing but a stray 
sheep. 

“Who done this?” yelled Bill Poole, showing 
his wounded hand. 

Who indeed? The Pooles had been waylaid 
and ambushed from the bluff. But not a Far- 
lan man was missing; and the search, made 
after so much delay, discovered no one. 

“Hey, boys!” a waggish fellow proclaimed 
solemnly. “It must ’a’ been that old sheep.” 

The joke pleased the crowd. They roared 
with laughter. “Baa!” “Baa-a-a!” “Baa-a- 
a-a-a ! * ’ they yelled as long as breath held out. 

The Pooles stood a minute, glowering before 
the shouting, laughing crowd, and then turned 
and fled up the road. 

But long before they turned back, Harrison 
Puffin had slid down the bluff and seized their 
weapons and thrown them into the river. Then 
he sped back to where his horse was tied and 
went pounding up the mountain. His plan had 
succeeded ! He had lawlessly enforced the law ! 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


299 


While these stirring events were taking place, 
Mr. Sheringham was alone in his “Den.” He 
was resenting rather than enjoying the golden 
afternoon, so out of keeping with his own feel- 
ings. He strode restlessly around the cabin. 

4 4 Heaven ! it ’s dreary !” he muttered to him- 
self, as was his lonely habit. 4 4 Who would think 
a place, a man, could change so?” 

His thoughts drifted back to the time, ten 
years before, when he had come hither with 
his University chums. What gay days they had 
had here in this cabin they called 44 Jolly Hun- 
ters ’ Lodge”! And then he met Nancy Bane. 
He could see her now, as on that first day — cross- 
ing the stream barefooted, in her dull blue 
gown, with a berry-basket in her hand. How 
lovely she was, with her flower-like face, the 
deep blue eyes, the masses of bright hair, the 
tender mouth, the firm chin! And how bright 
and brave and gay! 

Because he was so proud of her and loved 
her so dearly, he wanted her to adapt herself 
to his world ; but she thought he was fault-find- 
ing and ashamed of her, and so she ran away 
and went back to her old home. He had seen 


300 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


only the squalor and poverty of that life, had 
failed to understand her independence and pride 
and love of freedom, and the call of the moun- 
tains. 

“You may stay away,” he could hear now 
his own angry voice. “But you shall not keep 
my child, my son, Griffin Sheringham. ’ ’ 

And he could see her now as she stood clasp- 
ing the child, with her mournful, fearless eyes 
fixed on his face. “He ain’t your ’n any more ; 
he ’s mine, all mine. He ain’t Griffin Sher- 
ingham now; he ’s named Grief — Grief — Grief 
Bane.” How her voice had lingered on the 
melancholy words, the name she had wrought 
for the boy out of his father’s name and her 
own! 

And he, blind fool that he was ! had stormed 
out that he would have the child; the law 
would give it to him. 

“Thar can’t be no law to take a child from 
the mother that borned him with the pains of 
death,” she had answered. 

So he had left her. And then that awful 
news had come: his child was drowned; his 
wife was at death’s door. His heart breaking 


WHISTLING JIMPS 301 

with love and their common grief, he had gone 
to her — only to arrive too late. 

Her sister had met him with bitter words. 

“We ’ve heared ’bout yore lawin’. Well, the 
child that yore men-f oiks’ law say you c’n take 
from its mammy is dead; an’ so is she. Go an’ 
seek yore child in Failin’ Water.” 

Why did he linger here, with these bitter 
thoughts and mournful memories ? Why plague 
himself by going over and over the hopeless, 
unchangeable past? 

He dropped down on a chair, picked up the 
first book that came to his hand, and began to 
read. All at once a shadow fell across the 
page. He looked up, and then started and 
stared at the face in front of him — a pallid little 
face with wide blue eyes and fair hair touched 
to golden glory by the sun behind it, and dabbled 
with blood — like — so like — He shut his eyes 
and groaned. It would pass away in a minute, 
this creature of his sick fancy. 

Then he heard panting breaths. He felt 
rather than heard steps coming toward him, 
and a hand as light as a butterfly fluttered down 
on his arm. 


302 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


He looked again at the pale little face. 
Heavens! Was he losing his mind, that he 
could not see a stranger with blue eyes and 
fair hair without at once conjuring up the ghost 
of his dead child? 

Before he could twist his trembling lips to 
a question, the child spoke : 

4 4 Go thar quick. He hurts so bad. ’ ’ The lit- 
tle fellow panted and reeled, for, injured as he 
was, he had come in haste, following the nearest 
path and stopping at the first door, to summon 
help. 

4 4 Who hurts?” asked Mr. Sheringham. 

4 4 He ’s by the bad water that took me,” said 
the child. 44 Whar it pours down.” 

4 4 Who? Who ’s lrie?” 

44 Jimp.” 

44 Jimp who?” 

4 4 Jimp; my Jimp. He ’s— he ’s— ” The 
child gave a cooing whistle. 4 4 That ’s him,” 
he said. 4 4 Come on.” 

4 4 Do you mean,” asked Mr. Sheringham, 
4 4 that somebody got hurt and sent you for 
help?” 

* The child nodded. 4 4 It ’s Jimp. Go thar.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


303 


Mr. Sheringham would have said that it was 
none of his business, that aid must be sought 
elsewhere; but he could not. The little fel- 
low had grasped his fingers and was tugging 
at them, making curious vibrations through him ; 
not since his hand rested on his own baby had 
he touched a child. 

‘ ‘ Quick !” The child’s voice faltered. He 
tottered and would have fallen if Mr. Shering- 
ham had not caught him. He drenched the lit- 
tle face with cold water, and the blue eyes 
fluttered open. “ Quick!” he gasped, and then 
fainted again. 

Mr. Sheringham lifted the boy in his arms — 
so frail a burden it was! — and started to lay 
him on the bed; but after a moment’s hesita- 
tion, he went out of the house and, with the 
child’s head resting on his shoulder, walked 
rapidly down the path. 

“Whar the water pours down,” he repeated. 


CHAPTER XIV 


F OLLOWING the little fellow’s directions, 
Mr. Sheringham came to Jimps on the 
rock at the foot of Crystal Falls. He laid down 
the child and examined the injured boy. 

“I might — ” he began, looking at the dislo- 
cated shoulder and the broken leg; then he 
frowned and shook his head. “He is badly 
hurt — how badly I don’t know. I ’d better 
rush for a doctor. I ’ll go and borrow Sibold’s 
horse.” 

He laid Jimps flat on a smooth rock, and then 
turned to the child, who had now regained con- 
sciousness and was sitting up. 

“Are you afraid?” asked Mr. Sheringham; 
“afraid to stay here while I go for a doctor?” 

The little fellow did not lift his eyes from his 
friend’s face. 

“Jimp!” he called. 

Jimps opened his eyes and tried to speak. 
“Grie-ie — ” His voice died away in a sighing 

304 


WHISTLING JIMPS 305 

breath, the heavy eyelids dropped, and he lay 
quite still. 

The child stroked one of the limp hands and 
said softly: ‘ ‘Jimp! uh, Jimp! Wake up. 
Open yore eyes.” 

“Ah! you ’re a good little true friend!” Mr. 
Sheringham said, patting the child ’s head; then 
he turned away. “I ’ll hurry all I can.” 

As he started up the path, he heard hoof- 
beats and clattering wheels coming up the saw- 
mill road from Manson. Perhaps here was a 
swifter messenger than he ; at least, there would 
be some one to sit beside the wounded boy until 
the doctor came. He climbed the bluff to the 
road, and saw a buggy with a man and a girl 
in it. The man — thank God! — was Dr. Wayne. 

“Doctor! Doctor! Come here, quick!” Mr. 
Sheringham called. “Here ’s a boy that ’s 
hurt.” 

The girl — it was Page Ruffin — uttered an ex- 
clamation of impatience. “Oh! We must 
hurry. ’ ’ 

But the doctor, quick to answer any eall of 
need, caught up his medicine-case and sprang 
out of the buggy. 


306 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Where?” 

“Down here; just below the falls. A child 
came to my house for help.” 

As Mr. Sheringham answered he was leading 
the way down the bluff. 

“Brat!” exclaimed Page, seeing first the 
child sitting on the rock. “Why, Dr. Wayne! 
it ’s Brat, the very child you came to get. Oh ! 
what is the matter with him?” 

“He is n’t hurt; at least, not badly, I think,” 
said Mr. Sheringham. “He has a slight head 
wound. The other boy has a broken leg and — ” 

“It ’s Jimps Farlan!” cried Page. “Is — is 
he dead?” 

A deathlike figure it was, indeed, that lay 
there, pale and unconscious. The doctor gave 
the aid that he could render at once ; and, with 
the help of Mr. Sheringham, he set the broken 
leg and put the dislocated shoulder in place. 

“He may have other injuries,” said Dr. 
Wayne. “He has evidently had a terrible fall. 
We must get him down the mountain as quickly 
as possible. Take my buggy, Sheringham, and 
go to Sibold’s. Ask him to bring his wagon 
with a mattress and pillows in it.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


307 


“Oh! save him, Dr. Wayne; don’t let him 
die,” Page implored. “He was trying — don’t 
yon see? — to help Brat. He was getting him 
away from those awful Pooles.” 

“We ’ll do our best,” the doctor said cheer- 
ingly. 

He bared Jimps’s arm and gave a hypodermic 
stimulant. 

Jimps opened his eyes and looked around 
with a dazed stare; he tried to raise himself 
on his elbow, and fell back. 

“I — I feel mighty dauncy,” he said wonder- 
ingly. 

“You got hurt somehow,” explained the doc- 
tor. “But you ’ll soon be all right.” 

“Uh, yes! I mind it now. I was tryin’ to 
set Brat — an ’ him little Grief ! — in a bush. That 
rock broke off an’ I tumbled down. But little 
Grief ’s all right. ’ ’ 

“ ‘ Little Grief’!” the doctor said to Page. 
“What does he mean?” 

“Grief was the name of his cousin he was 
very fond of,” said Page. “One that ’s dead. 
He was drowned.” 

“Oh! he ’s delirious — talking about Nancy 


308 WHISTLING JIMPS 

Bane’s child. It was drowned here in Falling 
Water.” 

“Naw,” said Jimps, “not drownded. Here 
he is.” 

The child had been sitting quietly at one side, 
watching them with grave, concerned eyes. 
Now he crept close to Jimps and began to fondle 
his hand. 

“Jimps, this is Brat,” Page exclaimed gen- 
tly; “the child that the Pooles took from the 
poorhouse and kept shut up. Somehow, you 
got him away . ’ 7 

“When you are stronger you ’ll tell us all 
about it,” said Dr. Wayne. “Now you ’d 
better lie still a while. You ’ve a trying jour- 
ney before you.” 

* 4 Where ? ’ 7 asked Page, thinking with a shud- 
der of the Farlan cabin. “Are you going to 
take him home?” 

“To my home,” answered Dr. Wayne; “and 
see what we can do for him, poor brave little 
chap ! 7 7 

“And Brat?” 

“I ’ll take him, too, for to-night,” he said. 
“I ’ll dress that wound on his head. Then I ’ll 


WHISTLING JIMPS 309 

turn him over to Mr. Truitt, to carry with the 
other children to Richmond to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“Oh! I am so glad!” Page’s face lighted, 
but it grew quickly grave as she glanced at 
Jimps. He was looking earnestly at the child 
beside him. 

‘ ‘ Little Grief ! ” he said in a low voice. “ I ’m 
mighty glad I got you.” He lay still a while. 
“Wa’n’t that like them Pooles?” 

“What?” asked Page. 

“I dunno. Somethin’ mean they did. But 
it ’s all right now. — -Hey, Page ! How ’d you 
git here?” 

“Dr. Wayne and I were coming from 
Manson. He was going to get Brat. After 
you told us — ” 

Dr. Wayne shook his head and put his 
finger on his lips. He did not wish Jimps to be 
reminded of the Pooles and their plot. “Mr. 
Sheringham met us and brought us here to help 
you,” he said. 

“Old Shearam?” asked Jimps. 

“Yes. He found you. You had fallen and 
hurt yourself.” 

‘ ‘ Um-m ! But I got little Grief. ’ ’ 


310 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“Yes; yes,” the doctor said, trying to soothe 
the boy whose mind he thought was wandering. 
“Now lie still.” 

There was a little silence. Above the noise 
of the stream they heard the wagon clattering 
along the rocky road. It stopped, and Mr. 
Sheringham and Mr. Sibold came and helped 
carry Jimps up the bluff and put him into the 
wagon. 

“Good job!” said Dr. Wayne. “Now, 
Sheringham, when I lift him, slip that blanket 
under him, so-o !” 

Jimps looked up at Mr. Sheringham. “It ’s 
two times you ’ve holped me,” he said slowly. 
“I reckon Ic’n nail up them holes I broke in 
yore windows. An’ Brat — ” 

All at once the whole past flashed on his mind. 
He screamed and tried to jump up* 

“I We got to go!” he shrieked. “Good 
Lawd! They ’ll kill my folks. Let me go! 
Let me go !” 

Dr. Wayne caught him and jabbed a hy- 
podermic needle into his arm. He struggled 
more faintly, and then fell back stupefied. 

“Drive on, Mr. Sibold; very carefully,” said 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


311 


the doctor. “I *11 be right behind yon. Miss 
Page, I ’ll have to leave yon to go on to Butter- 
fly Flat alone. It isn’t far. Here, Shering- 
ham, I ’ll take that child in the buggy with me. ’ ’ 

With a gentle, lingering hold that was an 
awkward caress, Mr. Sheringham lifted Brat 
to the seat beside Dr. Wayne; then, with 
drooping head and bowed shoulders, he went 
up the path toward Rocky Hollow. 

As they drove slowly down the mountain, 
Dr. Wayne made friends with the child. 
Brat wasn’t his name, the boy said emphati- 
cally. His name was Grief. Grief — he didn’t 
know what. But it was Grief. And that boy 
asleep in the wagon was Jimp, his Jimp, that 
took him walking and showed him birds and 
squirrels. He ran away from Jimp and fell 
in the bad water. 

The doctor started and looked earnestly at 
the child. “How did you get out?” he asked. 
“Did Bill or Marthy Poole pull you out? and 
keep you in their cabin?” 

“I jest was out. An’ Jimp was thar on the 
rock. Who ’s Bill an’ Marthy Poole?” the 
child asked, with a puzzled frown. 


312 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


4 ‘Good heavens !” thought Dr. Wayne. 
‘ ‘ That boy ’s right. It is Sheringham ’s child ! ’ 1 

Sheringham ’s child! Nancy Bane’s little 
son, saved in some way from the mad torrent, 
but with a blow that had banged shut the door 
of his mind. From the time that the water had 
dashed him head-foremost against a rock until 
to-day, when he fell down the cliff and came 
to himself beside his beloved Jimps, all was a 
blank to him. 

The doctor examined the wound on his head. 
It was a clean line fracture. Ah! that had re- 
lieved the brain pressure caused by the first 
blow and had restored him to a normal condi- 
tion. 

Dr. Wayne questioned the child gently 
and carefully. Did he remember his father? 
He did n ’t have any father, he said. There was 
mammy. She hollered when he fell in the water. 
And there were “the chillen.” He liked Minta 
and Nance and Looey; but Jimps — his face 
lighted up — he was Jimp’s boy. 

“Here we are, Doc,” called Mr. Sibold, stop- 
ping his wagon at Dr. Wayne’s door. “And 
the boy ’s stood the trip fine.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


313 


“Eh? What? Oh! oh, yes!” said the doc- 
tor, his far thoughts coming home. “Help me 
get the chap in. And, Sibold, I want you to 
take a message to Sheringham when you go back 
home. I must see him ; about something of the 
utmost importance. ’ ’ 

“To-night?” asked Mr. Sibold. 

“Yes. H’m! No; it won’t do to excite my 
patients. Tell him to come to-morrow morning. 
Easy there, my man!” 

Jimps was put to bed in a big, airy room ; but, 
though he was cared for gently and skilfully, 
he tossed restlessly, calling, “Grief! Grief! 
Grief!” And downstairs in the nursery the 
child was wailing, “Jimp! I want my Jimp!” 
At last Dr. Wayne carried the child to 
Jimps ’s room. They cuddled in each other’s 
arms and fell asleep. 

After office hours the doctor’s bell rang, and 
Jane came to say: “There ’s a man and a 
woman wanting to see you, sir. His hand is 
hurt.” 

Dr. Wayne stepped into his office, and 
found himself face to face with Bill and Marthy 
Poole. Ah! here was a chance to probe for 


314 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


facts. First, however, he examined Bill’s 
wounded wrist. 

“How did you get shot?” asked the doctor. 

“Jest got shot.” 

“Who did it?” 

“I dunno. I was walkin’ ’long the road, an’ 
thar come a shot.” 

“Was any one killed; any one else hurt?” 
inquired the doctor. 

“Nobody a-tall. Jest one shot was fired.” 

‘ ‘You — Bill Poole ! — were shot ! And did n ’t 
shoot back 1 ?” 

A curious expression flitted over the man’s 
face. “Naw,” he drawled. “Me an’ some 
o’ my folks was walkin’ up the road. I got 
shot. An ’ we walked back down the road. ’ ’ 

“Baa!” commented the doctor incredulously. 

Bill started to his feet and ripped out a furi- 
ous oath. 

“Here, fellow! What do you mean?” the 
doctor exclaimed angrily, looking with amaze- 
ment at the man’s livid face and blazing eyes. 

Marthy caught her husband by the arm and 
spoke quickly in his ear: “Sh-sh! Shet up. He 
don’t mean — that.” 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


315 


“How dare you speak to me in that way!” 
Dr. Wayne said sternly. “What ’s the mat- 
ter with you, anyhow ! ’ ’ 

BilPs face cleared. He gave an apologetic 
murmur and sat down again. The doctor 
busied himself with dressing the wound, frown- 
ing thoughtfully as he tried to make out what 
had happened. Probably his telephoned warn- 
ing had enabled the sheriff to check the feudist 
plot. But what about this shooting affair! 
Well, it was n’ta very serious one, if this was 
the only casualty; and certainly Bill Poole’s 
face and story were not those of a victor. 

Dr. Wayne fastened the bandage, and then 
looked the man straight in the eyes. “Bill 
Poole,” he demanded, “why did you take Nancy 
Bane’s child!” 

Before the man realized what he was doing, 
he gave a direct answer to the direct question: 
“I ain’t knowed who he was when I pulled him 
out o’ Failin’ Water.” 

“You found out mighty soon.” 

“I jest thought I ’d hide him a while, to 
plague them Farlans.” 

“And then!” 


316 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


‘ 1 Then he didn’t have no sense/ ’ burst out 
the mountaineer. ‘ ‘I knowed they ’d think we 
harmed him — a baby child like that! An’ he 
tried to run away. He was aPays tryin’ to run 
away. Thar wa’n ’t nothin’ to do but to keep 
him shet up. ” 

“Whar is he now? Uh, tell me, ef you 
know, ’ 9 implored Marthy. 

4 ‘Safe. Where his father will take care of 
him. And he ’s come to his senses.” 

“Uh! pore little un!” breathed Marthy. 

“Here! let ’s have the whole story,” said 
the doctor. 

And so they told it. 

Marthy and Bill had been on their way to the 
store that day, and they saw the child in the 
water just below Little Falls. Not knowing 
who he was, Bill plunged in and, narrowly es- 
caping being swept down-stream himself, 
caught the child and dragged him out. 

“Then we see Farlans come racin’ an’ 
screechin’,” said Marthy, “an’ we knowed it 
was thar brat Bill had e’en-a’most drownded 
himself to git. An’ he cussed an’ drapped him 
in the bushes; not to hurt him; jest to plague 


WHISTLING JIMPS 317 

them. An’ I told ’em I see somethin 9 like a 
yaller-headed child go over the big falls. ,, 

“I heard that tale,” said Dr. Wayne. 
“Go on.” 

“Whenso they went away, I got Brat,” said 
Marthy. “We aimed to turn him loose, to go 
home. But he — he did n’t have no sense. We 
couldn’t leave him thar, to fall in the creek or 
die. An’ we could n’t take him back; not after 
what I told ’em. They ’d ’a’ swore we hurt 
him. We had to take him home. We had to 
keep him. An’ he screeched so awful, an’ was 
al’ays tryin’ to run away. Pore little thing!” 
she said, mopping her eyes with her apron. 

“But where was the other child?” asked the 
doctor. 

“T’ other child?” 

“The one that you got from the poorhouse 
three years before Nancy Bane lost her child.” 

“Uh, he was dead ; dead and buried the spring 
’fore we got Brat out the creek. His grave 
is up thar back o ’ our cabin. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ A-ah, I see ! W ere you cruel to this child ? ’ ’ 
The doctor flung the question at Marthy. 

“To Brat? That pitiful pore little thing!” 


318 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


“He was one of the Farlans,” he reminded 
her, watching her keenly. 

“He wa’n’t nothin’ but God’s pore little 
fool,” she said in a trembling voice. 

Dr. Wayne sat still a moment, tapping 
the chair-arm with a deliberate forefinger. 
“Well, of course I don’t know what Griffin Sher- 
ingham will do — ” 

Bill raised his chin defiantly. “What c’n Griff 
Shearam do for my pullin’ his brat out the 
creek an’ keepin’ him from drowndin’? . Any- 
way, I don’t reckon I ’ll ever lay eyes on him 
ag’in. Me an’ Marthy’s goin’ to West Virginia 
for good an’ all.” 

Dr. Wayne considered a minute. Then 
he waved his hand toward the open door. “I 
wish West Virginia joy of you!” he said. He 
shook hands with Marthy, and left a silver coin 
in her palm. “You ’ll be wanting tobacco on 
your tramp,” he said. “Good night and good- 
by.” 

Mr. Sheringham came to Manson the next 
morning, in response to the doctor’s message, 
and was overwhelmed with joy at the tidings 
that awaited him. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


319 


4 4 My child ! raised from the dead ! ” he gasped. 
4 4 Where is he? Oh! I must see him. I must 
have him at once ; at once ! ’ 1 

4 4 Control yourself, my man,” said Dr. 
Wayne. 4 4 You ’ll frighten him; may do him 
harm.” 

44 I am calm; I ’m perfectly calm,” Mr. Sher- 
ingham insisted, with a quivering laugh that 
ended in a sob. 4 4 My own son! Oh, doctor! 
don ’t keep him from me . 9 9 

4 4 Remember, he knows you only as the 
stranger of yesterday. Steady now!” 

4 4 Yes, yes! oh, yes!” promised Mr. Shering- 
ham. But when he saw his child, the son re- 
stored to him as from the dead, his emotion 
overpowered him and, laughing and crying, he 
rushed forward with outstretched arms, seized 
the little fellow and covered his face with 
kisses and tears. 

The frightened child struggled to escape, 
calling, 4 4 Jimp! Jimp!” 

The doctor interposed, but he could not quiet 
the little fellow until he carried him back to 
Jimps. 

4 4 Don’t touch him again,” he said authorita- 


320 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


tively to Mr. Sheringham. “You must not 
agitate him. Remember the terrible shocks he 
has had. Be gentle and patient, and he ’ll come 
round in time. ’ ’ Then he made a concession to 
the father’s yearning look. “If you ’ll be very 
quiet, you may sit here in the room. But don’t 
try to force matters.” 

Mr. Sheringham sat in a corner of the sick- 
room, watching his child with pathetic, longing 
devotion. Jimps lay still, looking from father 
to son. At last he pulled Grief’s head close to 
him. 

“A daddy ’s a mighty fine thing to have,” 
he murmured in the child’s ear. “They think a 
heap o ’ thar little boys. Ef that was my daddy 
lookin’ at me so wishful-like, I ’d go an’ set in 
his lap.” 

Grief gazed at his father. 

“I ’d go to him,” repeated Jimps. 

Grief looked dubiously at his unknown father, 
and then back to his beloved cousin. “I don’t 
mind settin’ in his lap,” he said at last, “but I 
want holt o ’ yore hand. ’ ’ 

“Well, he c’n set by the bed, an’ then you 
need n’t leave go o’ me,”’ suggested Jimps. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


321 


So Mr. Sheringham came to the bedside, and 
the little hand was a bond between him and 
Jimps that put an end to the old bitterness and 
strife. 

That afternoon Page and Harrison, on their 
way to the station, came to say farewell. They 
were allowed to tiptoe into Jimps’s room, for a 
few words of greeting and good-by. 

“How different Brat looks ! — Grief, I mean,” 
Page said to Dr. Wayne, when they went out. 
“I shouldn’t know he was the same child I 
saw in the cabin. ’ 9 

“He is different; he ’s himself now,” an- 
swered the doctor. “It ’s a wonderful case. 
You remember I asked, that first day, if he had 
had a blow on the head. The things you had 
observed — his headaches, his staggering gait, 
his apathy, and that cephalic cry — were symp- 
toms of concussion of the brain. It was caused, 
no doubt, by his going head-foremost against 
a rock in Falling W ater . 9 9 

“And you said he might have to have an op- 
eration,” Page remembered. 

“Yes. Nature performed that operation,” 
replied Dr. Wayne. “When he fell from 


322 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


the cliff, he struck his head on, a sharp rock and 
received a line fracture. In the half-hour or 
so that he lay there, the cerebral fluid drained 
out with the blood from the wound, and that 
relieved the brain pressure and restored his 
faculties. When he got up he recognized 
Jimps, and was even able to go for help, though 
he fainted after that exertion. Soon we ’ll have 
him well and strong.” 

“And Jimps?” 

“Oh! he ’s responding nicely to treatment; 
he ’s on the highroad to recovery,” answered 
Dr. Wayne. 

Harrison looked at his watch. 

“We must go,” said Page. “We ’ll see you 
next summer, dear folks, all of you.” 

But only three weeks after this long fare- 
well she and Harrison came back again. 

“Father had to come here about Forest 
Service business,” Page explained to the 
Waynes. “And he brought us with him, to stay 
between trains, and see you all. ’ ’ 

“Not all whom you left here,” said Mrs. 
Wayne. “Jimps has gone home.” 

“O-oh!” Page was keenly disappointed. 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


323 


“He made a wonderfully rapid recovery/ ’ 
said Dr. Wayne. “And he was so anxious 
to get home that I let him go to-day/ ’ 

“We offered to carry him,” said Mrs. 
Wayne. “But he was set on walking. There 
were byways he wanted to take, for sake of 
wild-grape vines and crows ’ nests and secret 
springs and special apple-trees. So he went 
off, an hour ago, with Mr. Sheringham and 
little Griffin. ’ * 

“Oh!” Page sighed dolorously. “We did 
want to see Jimps. I ’m so disappointed!” 

“Jump in my buggy,” said the doctor. 
“We ’ll follow them up.” 

They overtook the wayfarers resting on a 
rock at the bend of the road. Little Griffin was 
sitting beside his father, giving three-year-old 
news about berry patches and squirrel nests. 
Jimps was lying flat on the ground, whistling 
softly and looking from under lowered lids at 
the wide, fair valley and the wooded hills and 
the far-off mountains. He sat up, with an ex- 
clamation of surprise, when Page jumped out 
of the buggy and ran toward him. 

“Why, Jimps! how well you are looking!” 


324 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


She exclaimed, gazing at him with joyful amaze- 
ment. “I did n’t know any one could get well 
so quickly.’ ’ 

“Uh! I ’m all right,” he said, smiling and 
nodding greetings. 

“ You sure are all right, old scout,” Harrison 
said with emphasis. 

“So ’s you.” Jimps turned to him with a 
grin. “Say! What would you ’a’ done 
ef Pooles had stood fast when you said 
‘Three’?” 

“What do you know about that?” asked Har- 
rison. He looked at Page, who smiled and 
glanced at Dr. Wayne. Harrison laughed. 
“Well — they didn’t,” he said. “And now 
everything ’s all right, except that Bill Poole 
got off scot-free. He ought to be in jail,” he 
said, with the uncompromising severity of 
youth. 

‘ ‘ Uh ! he an ’ Marthy ’s out the way, gone for 
good,” said Jimps comfortably. “An’ thar 
house is burnt up. Nobody knows ef they did 
it a-purpose or ef it was happen-chance. Any- 
way, that old place is a ash-pile.” 

“ Oh ! I ’m so glad ! ’ ’ exclaimed Page. ‘ ‘ The 


WHISTLING JIMPS 325 

world is so much nicer with that dark old prison 
hut out of it.” 

“I ’m glad, too,” said Jimps. “It makes 
sure thar ’s no come-back o’ Pooles. We-all 
are goin’ to live up Rocky Hollow now. It ’s 
our home.” 

“Your home?” asked Page. 

Jimps nodded his head. “Uncle Griff ’s 
give the ‘Den’ to mammy, now he an’ Grief ’s 
goin 9 down the country to live. She would n ’t 
’a’ took it off him,” he hastened to explain the 
favor his mother had conferred, by accepting 
her brother-in-law ’s gift. ‘ 4 But he did n ’t treat 
Aunt Nance amiss. He thought she was tired 
o’ him; an’ she was jest a-honin’ for the 
mountains. ’ ’ 

There was a little silence, then Jimps laughed 
aloud. 

“A place to bide!” he said jubilantly. 
“Nobody can’t say ‘Git out!’ or ‘Move on!’ to 
us, nuver no more! An’ thar ’s thrushers an* 
squirrels an’ them elks an’ all sorts o’ things 
up that hollow. An’ Grief’s cornin’ to see us.” 

“Jimps!” Mr. Sheringham said earnestly, 
repeating a request that he had been urging for 


326 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


many days. “Jimps, I wish you would go 
home with me, to stay with little Griffin ; be his 
big brother and go to school with him ; do every- 
thing, have everything, like my own son.” 

Jimps smiled and shook his head. “I got to 
stay with the mountains,” he said whimsically. 

“But, my boy — ” and Mr. Sheringham poured 
out arguments and entreaties. 

Jimps shook his head again; shook it more 
emphatically when Harrison urged him to accept 
the generous offer. 

“I can’t go ’way from the mountains,” he 
said. 

“Of course you ’d miss them,” said Harri- 
son. “I missed them a lot at first, and I keep 
on missing them sometimes. But it ’s great to 
go to school, with all the fun of games and 
getting ready to do things when I ’m a man ; be 
an engineer or in the Forest Service.” 

“That ’s all right for you. But me — Naw! 
naw!” Jimps declined positively. 

“You ’re wasting words,” Dr. Wayne said 
placidly. “Jimps Farlan, here in the Vir- 
ginia mountains, is a creature of the Golden 
Age. In these last few months he has come in* 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


327 


to a widening circle of human sympathy, but he 
is still nearly as close akin to trees and birds 
and beasts as he is to us. Not even blessed 
Saint John of Patmos, I think, could tame him 
to-day when he ’s going back, longing and eager, 
to his outdoors. ’ 9 

Jimps answered Dr. Wayne’s smile without 
understanding his words. “Yes, I ’m goin’ 
back,” he said. “I ’m obleeged to you-all. 
You ’ve been mighty good to me, an’ I wish 
you well . 9 9 

He stood up and looked around. 

Summer was gone. A new season, new things, 
were at hand. The green of the chestnut woods 
had taken on a golden tint. A great maple- 
tree at the edge of the woodland was flinging 
abroad the scarlet-and-gold banner of early 
autumn, and in the air was the sparkle of sun- 
shine on the first frost. 

“Ain’t it pretty?” said Jimps; “with the 
blue from the sky drappin’ down on the fur 
mountains an’ fillin’ the nigh hollows?” He 
gazed, with a wistful light in his eyes, at ’Way- 
High Mountain jutting up against the horizon. 
“An’ the birds is singin’ thar, an’ things cornin’ 


328 


WHISTLING JIMPS 


an’ goin', goin’ an’ comin\ Um-m-m! What 
would they all do ’thout me?” 

They stood together in a little silence. 

“Well, well!” said Dr. Wayne. “We 
must be going, Miss Page, if you are to reach 
the station in time to catch that train.” 

There was a little chatter of good wishes and 
farewells. 

As they started away, Page and Harrison 
waved their hands to Jimps. But he did not 
wave back; for at that moment there came from 
the thicket above him the clear, sweet, calling 
song of the wood-thrush. He sprang forward 
and answered it with notes that seemed to come 
less from the lips than from the very heart of 
joy. They had one glimpse of his uplifted 
radiant face ; then the forest closed around him. 







